#however their love for one another is equal!!!!!

[madamechrissy]

Emperor! Gojo headcanons/ story preview

pairings- Emperor! Gojo x arranged! Empress reader

summary- you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either.

warnings - mentions of sex with multiple concubines, Gojo is a pretentious little shit, reader has a past love she left behind, oral sex (m and f receiving) teasing, lots of sexual tension, eventually gonna be mutual pining, gonna have a lot of angst, and smut - New wip, it's going to be a mini series with four parts, taglist open!

this is a birthday gift for my bestie @strychnynegirl hope you enjoy baby!!

Emperor! Gojo who loves all of his pretty concubines equally, he loves to please them, to tease them, to fill them up. To be a concubine of Satoru Gojo's was the utmost position in the empire, women fought hard to climb the ranks for such a chance. Satoru recently took over the position after his father passed away, and has pushed off marriage proposals left and right, why not just have fun with all his beautiful ladies?

Emperor! Gojo however is now being forced into marriage, he's played a foolish bachelor too long, and the higher ups have brought a perfect match from another land, a young princess who has been brought here just for him. Gojo is completely uninterested in meeting her, why should he be excited, the duties of being an emperor were taxing enough without having to meet some stranger and have to sleep with her, have babies with her. He ignores the meeting he's supposed to attend in favor of spending time with his favorite concubines at once, quite scandalous even for an Emperor.

Emperor! Gojo is a stranger to you as well, as you sit there sipping tea, your ladies in waiting are strangers, everyone you knew was back home, and here you are, made a fool of. There are whispers amongst them all, you can hear them as your teacup clinks on the little ceramic dish, and Emperor Gojo's mother comes in to apologize for his absence. She's a beautiful lady, you wonder if he looks like her errantly, but smile in a feigned politeness, nodding along. After all, it's not as if you were looking forward to this either.

Emperor! Gojo takes a bath with all his women, when you decide to join the bathhouse after quite a long time without one, your mind drifting to the boy you loved when you were forced to leave your home. You remember your kisses, your promises, and the moment you got sent away here, with a man who's currently being fed grapes in the clear bath waters by many women. They're giggling, touching him, and you barely see him as your attendant helps you undress.

Emperor! Gojo has brilliant blue eyes that catch you across the enormous, steamy bathhouse then - he's pausing as he sees you, just wearing a thin white slip of material, curious just who you are. You take some of the soap you've brought, and your attendant washes your hair while he can't take his eyes off you, your curves in that thin material, the way the smooth skin of your thighs is lit up but the lanterns above. You're so beautiful he must know who you are.

Emperor! Gojo feels his mouth go dry when you step into those waters now, standing a bit so that he sees the full outline of your breasts, making his cock twitch under the water, he can't focus on anything but how those droplets of water fall from your skin as you methodically wash yourself. You peer at him just a bit, before lowering your lashes, when he can't help but look at one of his favorite girls, asking - 'who is she?'

Emperor! Gojo doesn't get an answer, no one knows what you look like yet, so he assumes you must be one of the new girls in a position to become a concubine. and fuck if he wouldn't love that opportunity, imagining fucking a baby into you ruins him then. One of his major duties is to have as many babies as he can, to strengthen the empire of course. Yet he tends to be a little apprehensive, he dares to admit he doesn't cum in any of the concubines yet, he doesn't know if he wants children right away. He's young, but of course the pressure is there, and he knows it will be soon, especially with him having to marry. He shoves that annoying thought away.

Emperor! Gojo was supposed to meet his wife today, should he feel bad? maybe. Does he? no, he does not. He steps away and walks across the water, giving you a good look at him then, his chiseled body, narrow torso, pale skin glimmering under the warmth of the room. The stream rises as you look slowly up his body, carved like a statue, then finally make it to his face, truly beautiful. He does look like his mother, those white locks with just a hint of lavender, the beautiful blue eyes even more intense than hers, his body glistening as he walks closer, plump vermilion lips curved in a smile as he murmurs a - 'hello, there, are you new here?'

Emperor! Gojo has a reputation of being kind and fair, though on the battlefield he was ruthless, tales of him were regaled worldwide, and you knew of his military prowess of course. You tremble just a bit as he gets closer, his eyes slipping down your body like a caress. 'I am new here, your majesty' he smiles now. 'No need to be so formal,' the emperor brushes a hand across your hair, marveling in the silkiness now. 'Are you here to be a concubine? I assure you, I have a position opening very soon' he acts as if that's a compliment, as if you should be thrilled your husband to be is willing to fuck a stranger while he ignores your meeting. But you smile, shaking your head. 'ah, you're mysterious, hmm?'

Emperor! Gojo is enamored when he touches you under the water, big hand on the small of your back, taking it over as he steps closer, so tall and imposing in the water. Your breasts brush against his abdomen, as your breaths quicken, a mix of irritation and something more you don't want to admit. 'You know who I am?' you nod a bit, biting your lip when he leans down, pressing you along the warmth of the hard wall behind you. one of his long thighs presses against your heat, and you hate how your body reacts, it feels like such a betrayal of the one you loved, and for a man who doesn't want to even know you? You bite back a sigh when he leans down, an arm on either side of you.

Emperor! Gojo murmurs the words - 'so fucking pretty, god,' and earns your blush, he chuckles as he sees it, flushed color on your cheeks, when his lips hover over yours. 'Can you at least tell me your name, mysterious girl?' when you say it he immediately recognizes it, faltering and stepping back, eyes wide. You smile, meanly then, batting your lashes. 'was such a shame you couldn't meet me for tea, hmm? I see you were otherwise occupied' you eye the girls behind his shoulders, whispering to each other wildly, when you push him back, hands on his chest. 'It's rude not to even meet me after I got dragged on a five day journey on ship, you know.'

Emperor! Gojo sputters, eyeing your hands on his chest that he now pins there for a moment. 'You're my... you can't be... you...' a sigh escapes your lips, as you tug your hands back. 'Yes, I'm your betrothed, I suppose this is our first meeting. I'll leave you to your pretty concubines, I'm afraid I don't intend on becoming one,' you turn and climb up those steps, the slip forming to you like a goddess, as you turn him down. No one has ever turned Emperor Gojo down!? yet here you are, turning and giving him a little smile as your attendant hands you a towel. 'Perhaps you'll make it to the wedding, your majesty'

Emperor! Gojo is wracked with confusion, part of him doesn't even believe you, concubines were known for their beauty and assets, but wives were much different. They were always from some long line of weak women, usually only there for their duty, his own mother was quite an exception, but her and his father never loved each other. He hoped himself to never have to marry, but now he feels just the smallest twinge of guilt for not meeting you. Even for him it was quite the talk, he could hear the rumors of how he doesn't have interest in his bride to be as he walks through the corridors of his opulent estates.

Emperor! Gojo sees glimpses of you here and there that week, but you bow and say no words to him, avoiding him until it is your wedding day. And to say you were beautiful before, now it leaves him speechless, throat dry as you were those beautiful sky blue ceremonial juunihitoe, layers of blue and white, embossed with silver flowers just flowing from your body. He's wearing his thick dark blue sokutai, the robes altered to reveal far too much of his muscled chest, as Satoru liked to do. His heart hammers as you clutch your hands together, feeling the stoic eyes of so many on you. You focus on the tall, handsome man that clearly doesn't want this any more than you do, stepping closer and closer, until you're in front of him.

Emperor! Gojo is still reeling when you both sip on each of the three cups of sake, he places his lips on one end of the little dish, then hands it to you, eyeing the red painted on your lips. Your makeup has been done clearly, there's color under your eyes, blush along your precious cheeks. Precious, why did he think that? the thought irritates him, when you two continue the ceremony. Soon, it's night time, and he's prepared in just a thin Kimono, loosely tied, walking over to your chambers now and entering them, seeing you sitting in front of the vanity, your attendant brushing out your hair. 'You may go,' he orders her, the doors shutting with a loud echo as he inhales the sweetness of your scent, mixing with the incense you've lit.

Emperor! Gojo has a husky tone as he says your name, and you stand up now, wearing just a thin blue robe, he can see your breasts rising and falling with your breath, as the two of you stand across the room. 'The sooner I have a baby, the less you'll have to see me, or do this,' you say then, shocking him. His mouth opens, then closes as he smirks at you. 'And you think that you know how that's done?' you tilt your head just a bit, letting your robes fall then, covered in nothing, completely bare for his eyes. His breaths come far too quickly, heat rising on his cheeks. He's been with countless women, but nothing prepared him for this, for you, when you step up to him slowly, a hand on his chest. 'Should I prepare you, your majesty?'

Emperor! Gojo is furiously blushing now, annoyed you have whatever odd effect this is, he tries to save face, trembling as your fingers dance across the silk of his robe. 'you think you're adequate at it?' he says then, you smile just a bit. 'I've had instruction on how to please my future husband, there are many books that show it,' he laughs, trying to play it off, when he undoes his tie, and he's just in a fundoshi, showing his cock straining while his robes land on the floor. 'Let's see it, then,' he gasps when you're on your knees, glaring as he thinks that maybe you've done this before, and why should that bother him!?

Emperor! Gojo has his cock free then, slapping his stomach as it does, thick and already hard from just seeing you, you bite your lip as the cool stone floor hurts your knees, stroking him slowly, from the base where he has tufts of white hair, to his pink tip leaking milky drops. 'I thought I'd have to get you in this state? the books didn't mention it being ready...' he glares now, you're insulting him without even knowing it, calling out his desperation. He entangles a hand in your hair then, pulling it as you lap at his tip, almost making him cum from that. 'Let's see what you've learned, hmm?' you're stroking him then, little hand up and down in gentle twists, as you suck him into your mouth, deeper and deeper, his eyes roll back in his head as he fucks your hot mouth then.

Emperor! Gojo has never felt anything better even from the most practiced girls, your suction, the way your tongue swirls, as he fucks your throat deeper and deeper, moaning. But mostly, those eyes looking up at him. He's whispering filthy things - 'slutty fucking throat' - then sweet things - 'doing s'good, sweetheart...' a conundrum of a man. You feel your tummy clenching, something you didn't expect, snowy lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, while you taste him, hands pressing on his muscled thighs. He pulls you off him then, saliva dripping from your mouth. 'Was I not adequate?' he laughs without humor, standing you up now. 'Not adequate?' he is lifting you and slamming his lips on yours, tasting himself, before carrying you on your enormous bed, decorated in more blues, the color of the Gojo clan, the colors of his eyes.

Emperor! Gojo has elegant long fingers, they slip down your body as he feels it tremble, fingers touching your slick cunt then. You gasp as he kisses down one of your breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth, moaning and rutting his cock on the silk blankets as you cry out. 'Your majesty, you don't need to do all of that, just... get it done,' your words make him pause, looking up and seeing you then, lips swollen from his kisses. He pauses and looks down your body, dying to be inside you, but your words fuck him then. All of the concubines wanted Satoru, and you were just 'doing your duty'. He pulls back then, raising a brow at you. 'Do I need to suck you more?' he shakes his head, clearing his throat then - 'tonight, we will not consummate the marriage' - the words hurt you deeply. 'did I displease you?'

Emperor! Gojo doesn't know what it is, but the thought of a woman not wanting him, especially you, infuriates him. He shoves you up the bed then, making you blink in confusion, when he kisses down your tummy, watching it tense as he dreams of making it bulge with his cock. 'Are you untouched?' he asks, you blush then. 'I have not lain with a man, no, but I'm not untouched.' Satoru's furious anyone saw your pretty body, but he makes no comment, he surely hates tradition and wouldn't care if you were or were not a virgin. In fact he prefers experience, but when he sees your pretty pussy, glistening and soaked, he moans softly, the prettiest one he's seen. 'Your majesty, that's not... in the books!? ah!'

Emperor! Gojo has his tongue slipping up your slit then, smirking against your cunt as your mouth is wide. 'Not everything is in your books, sweetheart,' he laps up your slit again, and you whine out, gripping his shoulders, your nails pressing in. 'I'll have you cum on my face tonight,' his words are now muffled as he buries his face in your sweetness, letting the juices drown him, moaning as he works your body. He feels you tense, feels your cunt pulsing around his tongue when he fucks into your tiny hole, holding your thighs apart. You're lost in how good it feels, you've cum before but never have you done this, felt this, so intense, so much pressure. You're screaming out, hips arching as he makes filthy sounds with your squelching cunt.

Emperor! Gojo almost cums from just this, he's never enjoyed this so much, he can't help but pay attention to every little thing. You yank on his hair, as if to tug him off, he clamps down then, sucking your twitchy little clit into his mouth. 'ah! y-your majesty!' he wants you to call him Satoru, he can't say it though, for now he just devours your pussy, until you shatter. There are no words, just filthy, messy sounds, slurping and squishing echoing in your brand new chambers, while you cum all over your new husband's face. You're shaking as you come down, as the orgasm leaves aftershocks, pulsing around nothing, pleasure making you dizzy, blinded. Satoru presses one more kiss on your pretty cunt, smirking down at you now, pressing a kiss to your lips, when you taste yourself you're a blushing mess. 'a lot of talk, I don't think you're ready f'me yet, sweetheart'

Emperor! Gojo is getting up then, as you catch your breath, sitting up and looking at the man you barely know, his eyes linger across your body as he swipes his chin, embarrassingly coated with your slick. 'And where will you go, your concubines to cum?' he chuckles then, leaning low, tilting your chin up as you look at him. 'would that bother you, sweetheart?' you shake your head, it can't bother you, it shouldn't, this will be your life now. 'Ah, you're not the best liar, that won't help you play the court, you know,' he turns and walks away then, leaving you alone, to contemplate it all.

Just who was Emperor! Gojo!?

hehe I hope ya'll enjoy I can't wait to finish up a couple stories and get to this (or be chaotic and do it anyway lmaoo)

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[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Justin Martyr writes, "we who formerly used to murder one another do not only now refrain from making war upon our enemies, but also, that we may not lie nor deceive our examiners, willingly die confessing Christ," and, "we who were filled with war, and mutual slaughter, and every wickedness, have each through the whole earth changed our warlike weapons,—our swords into ploughshares, and our spears into implements of tillage,—and we cultivate piety…".

Tatian writes that, "I am not anxious to be rich; I decline military command [...] Die to the world, repudiating the madness that is in it".

Aristides writes that "Through love towards their oppressors, they persuade them to become Christians”

Hippolytus of Rome went so far as to deny soldiers baptism: "A soldier of the civil authority must be taught not to kill men and to refuse to do so if he is commanded, and to refuse to take an oath. If he is unwilling to comply, he must be rejected for baptism."

Tertullian formed an early argument against statolatry, "There is no agreement between the divine and the human sacrament, the standard of Christ and the standard of the devil, the camp of light and the camp of darkness. One soul cannot be due to two masters—God and Cæsar," also writing, "the People warred: if it pleases you to sport with the subject. But how will a Christian man war, nay, how will he serve even in peace, without a sword, which the Lord has taken away?"

Origen, whose father Leonidus was martyred during the persecution of the Roman emperor Septimius Severus in the year 202 AD, writes, "Jews [...] were permitted to take up arms in defence of the members of their families, and to slay their enemies, the Christian Lawgiver [has] altogether forbidden the putting of men to death [...] He nowhere teaches that it is right for His own disciples to offer violence to any one, however wicked."

Arnobius, "evil ought not to be requited with evil, that it is better to suffer wrong than to inflict it, that we should rather shed our own blood than stain our hands and our conscience with that of another, an ungrateful world is now for a long period enjoying a benefit from Christ.”

Archelaus, "many [soldiers] were added to the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ and threw off the belt of military service"

Lactantius, "For when God forbids us to kill, He not only prohibits us from open violence, which is not even allowed by the public laws, but He warns us against the commission of those things which are esteemed lawful among men. Thus it will be neither lawful for a just man to engage in warfare"

Gregory of Nyssa conveys the spirit of anarchism, "How can a man be master of another's life, if he is not even master of his own? Hence he ought to be poor in spirit, and look at Him who for our sake became poor of His own will; let him consider that we are all equal by nature, and not exalt himself impertinently against his own race."

The accession of Constantine terminated the pacifist period in church history. Nevertheless, the tradition of Christian pacifism was carried on by a few dedicated Christians throughout the ages, such as Martin of Tours, who converted during the early days of Christianity in Europe. Martin, who was then a young soldier, declared in AD 336, "I am a soldier of Christ. I cannot fight." He was jailed for this action, but later released, eventually becoming just the third Bishop of Tours. Jerome also writes, "To die is the lot of all, to commit homicide only of the weak man."

“The Scriptures teach that there are two opposing princes and two opposing kingdoms: the one is the Prince of peace; the other the prince of strife. Each of these princes has his particular kingdom and as the prince is so is also the kingdom. The Prince of peace is Christ Jesus; His kingdom is the kingdom of peace, which is His church; His messengers are the messengers of peace; His Word is the word of peace; His body is the body of peace; His children are the seed of peace. — Menno Simons (1494–1561), Reply to False Accusations, III

“To our most bitter opponents we say: 'We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you.' — Martin Luther King Jr. (1929–1968), "Loving your Enemies" in Strength to Love

Love without courage and wisdom is sentimentality, as with the ordinary church member. Courage without love and wisdom is foolhardiness, as with the ordinary soldier. Wisdom without love and courage is cowardice, as with the ordinary intellectual. Therefore one who has love, courage, and wisdom is the one in a million who moves the world, as with Jesus, Buddha, and Gandhi. — Ammon Hennacy (1893–1970)

"What do you mean by anarchist-pacifist?" First, I would say that the two words should go together, especially [...] when more and more people, even priests, are turning to violence, and are finding their heroes in Camillo Torres among the priests, and Che Guevara among laymen. The attraction is strong, because both men literally laid down their lives for their brothers. "Greater love hath no man than this." "Let me say, at the risk of seeming ridiculous, that the true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love." Che Guevara wrote this, and he is quoted by Chicano youth in El Grito Del Norte. — Dorothy Day (1897–1980), "On Pilgrimage — Our Spring Appeal", Catholic Worker

The Emmanuel Association teaches: We feel bound explicitly to avow our unshaken persuasion that War is utterly incompatible with the plain precepts of our divine Lord and Law-giver, and with the whole spirit of the Gospel; and that no plea of necessity or policy, however urgent or peculiar, can avail to release either individuals or nations for the paramount allegiance which they owe to Him who hath said, "Love your enemies." Therefore, we cannot participate in war (Rom. 12:19), war activities, or compulsory training. 

Linguist, philosopher, cognitive scientist, social critic, and libertarian socialist Noam Chomsky writes, The Gospels are radical pacifist material, if you take a look at them. When the Roman emperor Constantine adopted Christianity he shifted it from a radical pacifist religion to the religion of the Roman Empire. So the cross, which was symbol of the suffering of the poor, was put on the shield of Roman soldiers. Since that time the Church has been pretty much the church of the rich and the powerful—the opposite of the message of the Gospels. Liberation theology, in Brazil particularly, brought the actual Gospels to peasants. 

Walter Wink writes that "There are three general responses to evil: (1) passivity, (2) violent opposition, and (3) the third way of militant nonviolence articulated by Jesus. Human evolution has conditioned us for only the first two of these responses: fight or flight." This understanding typifies Walter Wink's book, Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way.

Non-violent direct resistance is evangelism. The gospel — the good declaration of Jesus of Nazareth as King of the Cosmos — calls for the complete and total abolition of all uses of death as a weapon.

Let’s talk about the long and often overlooked history of Christian protest — because it didn’t start in the 1960s, and it definitely didn’t end there either.

It begins with Jesus.

Jesus didn’t just preach love—he practiced resistance. Not passive submission, but a deep, active nonviolence that challenged empire, religious hypocrisy, and social injustice.

He refused to meet violence with violence.

He flipped tables, not people.

He told his followers to turn the other cheek—not out of weakness, but as a form of nonviolent confrontation that exposed injustice.

When facing Pilate, he said: “My kingdom is not of this world”—a political statement rejecting the authority of empire, while refusing to stoop to its tools.

[ovaryacted]

Ok so you’re thinking gay shit about Samira? What about what about her and Abbot sharing you? I can’t shake that idea. It haunts me. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.

─ 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚 𝐌𝐨𝐡𝐚𝐧.

𝐂𝐖: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Talks of polyamorous relationships & dynamics. Girls kissing & bathtub action at the end. They all love each other okay!

I know you sent this to me a little while ago anon, I apologize for taking so long to respond but just know I haven't stopped thinking about being in a dynamic with those two! I want to expand on this too since in my head there's so much to work with, but I'll share what's on my mind now. (If people want me to talk about them too, I'll be happy to do so!)

I’m gonna be real honest with you, I think the way that dynamic would work in my mind is ofc if they’re all in a poly relationship and they all love each other equally. HOWEVER, it would be so funny to think about all three people sharing each other. Me personally, it would be funny if Jack & reader (you) have this competitive thing going on when it comes to Samira, but it's all mutual love amongst the three of you, like you can't get enough of each other's attention.

Two pretty girls who have their routines working around one another, holding hands and being affectionate on the clock. Really, all of their shifts work around one another and it's seamless. Samira is on day shift, she's always the first one in, usually catches Jack on her way out and they cover the bases. She mentions how there's leftovers waiting for him at home, he says he'll check on you before you come into work later, she gives him a goodbye kiss, and that's that. Samira's handling things until the middle of the day when you show up around noon, and it's you two together for the rest of the day until both of your shifts end around the same time. You have to drag Samira out of the Pitt, but really having a reason to go home is helpful for all of you to build some life outside of work.

You and Samira probably head back to Jack's, his house is the biggest, more than enough room to hold the three of you together. Sometimes he's sleeping the day off, other times he's cooking for the both of you, meal prepping ahead of time to make sure you're all getting your carbs & protein in. He wants his girls happy and healthy, and he's strict about maintaining routines, making sure neither of you slip through the cracks. Likewise, you all help ground each other whether that be through work or otherwise.

Both you and Samira caress Jack's back, running lines up his spine and rubbing his nape. He basically purrs under the touches, leans into the attention you both happily give him. You pull away too soon, taking Samira's hand and mentioning that you were both due for a shower, or a bubble bath maybe. Jack only glances at the both of you, how Samira is already leaning into your frame, placing a soft kiss on your cheek as you drag her away. The older man smirks, leans against a counter, his big arms cross over his chest.

"You want me to join in on your playtime?"

A lighthearted giggle passes Samira, rolling her eyes at Jack's comment and heading to the master suite to get the bath started, and you smack her ass as she passes you. You have some time with Jack alone, eyeing him up and down, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

"Nah, it's my turn for some fun now, old man." He takes a step forward, placing both of his hands on your hips, squeezing your body.

"Honey, you worked with her all day. Quit being greedy." You laugh at that, stroking his chest and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt.

"After our bath, you can come join us, but I won't promise being done with 'Mira. Deal?" His lips turn upwards, humming contently when you stroke his stubbled jaw and chin.

"Deal. Go have fun with her. Save some for me, yeah?" Hovering closer to him, you plant your lips over his, gentle and just enough pressure to have him craving more.

"I always do."

Samira calls your name from upstairs, growing impatient and surely already sinking in the tub, bare and waiting for you. You'll take your time with her, and Jack would let you, listening in on all of the pretty sounds coming from his ensuite. He'll come to stand on the doorframe of the bathroom later, marveling at the sight of his two girls kissing and giggling, high off of endorphins and surrounded by the lavendar bubbles swishing around them.

That's the dream life, and frankly I would kill to have it.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[heliads]

One Thing More - Bill Weasley

You're Charlie Weasley's best friend, which means that you know better than to go after his older brother, Bill. Totally.

masterlist

It’s late into the evening, another night spent burning the midnight oil in the Gryffindor Common Room, and you don’t think you’d want to be anywhere else in the world. You’re meant to be wrapping up a Charms essay due tomorrow, but the task itself is so dull and you’re a bit crazy from lack of sleep so everything feels far more colorful and interesting than committing your last few words to parchment and ink. 

The scarlet armchair you’re currently sinking into is the perfect distance from the roaring fire in the great hearth, just close enough to keep you warm but far enough that you’re not overly hot. Your friends are gathered around you, some succumbing to the urge to nod off on the closest surface, but all equal in attempts to procrastinate. It’s impossible to keep your laughter at bay, not when you’re with your best friend, Charlie Weasley. You swear the two of you are at your funniest only when there’s work that needs doing, like tonight.

In short, it’s the perfect night. Your ribs have the slight ache of too much laughter, pleasant despite the pain, and somehow you unconsciously know that this is the kind of evening you’ll miss the most after you graduate. However, leaving Hogwarts seems an eternity away, and there’s nothing to bring you back down to melancholic sobriety tonight. You honestly don’t think you could be happier.

You can’t help a pleased glance around the common room. Although students are meant to stick to the domains of their own houses, you’ve snuck around plenty during your years at Hogwarts, and all that mischief has only solidified the idea in your mind that Gryffindor has the coziest common room of all the four houses. Slytherin may have stunning views of the lake, Ravenclaw may be able to stare at the stars, but Gryffindor’s ruby tapestries and glowing fire are the best by far.

Many students have gone to bed by now, accepting defeat on their homework progress for the evening with a promise that they’ll get up early the next morning to finish off their work. Whether they actually manage to crawl out of bed to make that happen remains up to them, but their absence only helps to highlight those of you still stuck in the battlefield of your assignments.

Your and Charlie’s group remains, of course, and then there’s a few exhausted seventh years too caught up in job prospect worries to go to bed, plus several third years panicking about a potions practical the next day. You can make out conflicted muttering about counter-clockwise versus clockwise stirring techniques in between the lulls in your conversation.

The study group that keeps drawing your attention, however, is spread around a table across the common room from you. These students are two years older than you, muddling through some complex spellwork for McGonagall. Most of them you hardly know at all, except for one particular boy you can’t seem to ignore. The firelight casts sparks down his shoulder-length copper hair, lighting up fresh flames whenever he turns to listen to one of his friends. You’ve had the good fortune of talking to Bill Weasley a few times now, but every meeting leaves you wishing for more. He’s effortlessly funny, hopelessly cool, but the single most defining trait is that he is the older brother of your best friend, and therefore strictly off limits.

You’d never do that to Charlie, you decide. Not in a million years. You’re a good friend, and good friends respect the sacred bonds of friendship and don’t go after each other’s brothers. You’ve certainly heard Charlie complain enough about the pitfalls of having six other siblings, all of whom take away time, attention, affection, reputation, and just about anything Charlie could hope of calling his own. Charlie loves his siblings, of course, but he likes being Charlie too, not one of seven Weasleys, so you’d know better than anyone how much it would bother him if you of all people went after his brother.

So you know better, then. Of course you do. But when you sneak another glance across the common room and find Bill looking at you– and he smiles the second your eyes meet– Merlin, it’s hard to remember just how important it is to be a good friend. You snap your gaze back to Charlie, who thankfully is in the middle of an anecdote about the time he tried to Transfigure a belt buckle into a dragon and just ended up with a rather metallic lizard, and doesn’t notice that you’ve been staring hopelessly at his brother.

Charlie hadn’t noticed, but Bill certainly had, and you swear that’s why he comes over just a few moments later, striding up to your table like this sort of thing happened all the time. He leans casually on your chair, his hand resting on the armrest just a hair’s breadth from your fingers.

“Charlie,” Bill says, “You’ve still got that Self-Tying Tie, right? One of my mates needs to borrow it.”

Charlie furrows his brow, trying to remember. “Crikey, I forgot about that thing. Yeah, I think it’s in the bottom of my trunk somewhere. Merlin, is it for Brooks? Has he still not figured out how to tie a tie?”

Bill cracks a broad grin. “He’s getting there, although I can’t tell if he’s going for a noose or a half Windsor. The effort is what matters.”

Charlie snorts. “If he hangs himself by accident, make sure I get the tie back.”

Bill turns to you with an expression of mock horror. “You hear that? Single-minded, he is. No respect for student welfare.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “He cares about student welfare, alright. Just the students that can manage a tie.”

This time, Bill’s bright smile is meant for you alone. “You’d best stay safe, then. One faulty knot and he’ll cut you off.”

“Not a chance,” Charlie says, rolling his eyes. “You, though, I would cut off. Get back to your mates and stop bothering us.”

“Alright, alright,” Bill says, biting back a laugh and holding up his hands in mock surrender as he retreats back to his table.

You watch him go with no small amount of reluctance, watching as Bill is instantly enveloped back into the laughter and chatter of his friends. He’s liked everywhere he goes, this you’ve seen both in the Gryffindor common room and beyond. Bill does well in his classes, he watches out for misguided first years, and he’s capable of making you completely lose your train of thought just by coming over and asking his brother a question.

Speaking of his brother, Charlie is good-naturedly complaining again about yet another instance of brotherly interference (can’t Bill just hex his friend and be done with it, honestly, we’re trying to study) but it’s all you can do to nod along and make vague noises of agreement at the appropriate times. Instead, you’re remembering how Bill’s hand had touched yours just briefly as he left your side, and how despite only being there to ask Charlie a question, he’d stayed so close to you.

Bill would never make a move, you’re certain of it. Half the girls in your house have a crush on him, and even if you’re doing a bad job of maintaining the rules of friendship, Bill would certainly respect the bond between brothers and not go after Charlie’s best mate. You’ve been close with Charlie since your first year; he was one of the very first people you met after boarding the train. You’re sure Charlie’s told him to stay away, if he even had to warn Bill at all.

Yet, when you finally give up your books and quills and retreat to bed for the night, you can feel Bill’s eyes on you when you head to the staircase to the girls’ dorms. He could have just been distracted by the movement, but that doesn’t explain why he didn’t look away, especially when you paused at the base of the stairs to say goodnight to Charlie. Bill could have been looking at anyone, but you swear– you know– he was looking at you.

It’ll drive you mad, this heartsick yearning. It already has. You first developed your silly crush on Bill when you were a second year and Charlie finally introduced you to his older brother. All it took was one look at the taller, more capable boy and you were smitten in a second. You’d like to think you kept it under the radar, but it’s been a few years now and you still feel like stumbling whenever Bill so much as crosses your path.

You never expected the crush to last so long, but it doesn’t show any signs of going away anytime soon. You’ve tried everything to stop thinking about him, but all it takes is one easy conversation and you’re right back where you started. You’ve got good friends who are boys, obviously, but Bill is the only one you’ve been crushing on for such a long time that you almost forget you could look at the other boys in that way.

You suppose that’s why it comes as such a surprise when you get asked out the next week by a boy in your year, Harley Greytwig from Ravenclaw. You know him, of course, he’s one of the brighter students your year and you often find yourself working near him in the library late at night. He’s a perfectly nice boy, well-spoken and well-mannered, but you’re so taken aback by his casual offer to grab drinks at the Three Broomsticks the next time you’re in Hogsmeade that you say yes before you even know what you’re doing. Harley brightens at once and offers to walk with you from the central courtyard, and just like that, you’ve got a date.

Charlie, of course, thinks it’s hilarious when you tell him that night at dinner. “You’re so opinionated on everything, I can’t believe you just let him talk you into it.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t ‘just let him’ do anything, Charlie. He’s a nice guy. And I am not opinionated!”

Charlie grins unashamedly. “So you’re arguing about whether or not you’re opinionated? Seems to me like you’ve got strong opinions on the subject.”

You glare at him. “I have strong opinions about hexing you, Weasley. Shall we pursue that subject too?”

Charlie opens his mouth to argue this, but he’s cut off by Bill sliding into a seat next to him. “Who are we hexing? I’m delighted regardless, but I do have to insist it’s somewhere far from the professors. I’m trying to–”

Charlie interrupts this time. “You’re trying to guarantee your bid at prefect, we know. And no one’s getting hexed. It might ruin Y/N’s date.”

Bill pauses in the middle of helping himself to some roast. When he speaks, his voice is oddly clipped, as if he’s trying to act carefree but it isn’t entirely working. “Y/N’s going on a date?”

You drop your face into your palm. “Way to go, Charlie. Is there anyone else you’d like to tell, or just the entirety of Gryffindor House?”

Charlie just laughs. “Y/N got talked into going out with Harley Greytwig.”

You stare at Charlie with ill-disguised irritation. “I did not get talked into doing anything. He asked and I said yes. What’s so surprising about that?”

Bill stares intently at his fork. “Nothing. Nothing is surprising. Harley– he’s a Ravenclaw, right? Likes wizard chess a lot?”

You frown. “You also like wizard chess a lot.”

Bill shrugs a bit too hastily. “No, it’s not– I’m just saying. I don’t know a whole lot about him.”

He turns to look searchingly at the Ravenclaw table. Thankfully, Harley has his back to him, and doesn’t notice Bill glaring daggers at his back.

“Don’t stare,” you hiss, “and it’s fine we don’t know him that well. I’ll get to know him on the date, that’s the whole point.”

Charlie snorts. “What, we can’t do a bit of reconnaissance? We’re just trying to look out for you. Maybe he’s evil.”

“Definitely evil,” Bill agrees, still determinedly not making eye contact with you. 

It’s odd, actually. Just a few days ago, you’d caught him staring in the Gryffindor common room, and now he’ll hardly look at you at all. You shake your head to clear your thoughts and switch the subject to something safer, like the upcoming Quidditch game against Slytherin. Thankfully, Charlie is more than willing to discuss the topic in great intensity, insisting that his beloved team will take the victory when they hit the pitch later that week. By the time you finish your dinner, you’re almost able to forget the whole thing.

Almost. You and Bill weren’t close friends, that was reserved for you and Charlie, but his behavior is positively odd over the next few days. He won’t look at you, he hardly even greets you when he sees you. Even Charlie comes out of his Quidditch bubble long enough to comment on Bill’s change in personality, but only in passing, and you’re pretty sure he forgets it by the next day.

You try to brush it off too, but it hurts. You’ve never been foolish enough to truly believe that Bill could ever feel the same way about you as you do about him, but it had been enough to coast on a fragile friendship and treasure what you did have instead of what you dreamed about. Now, though, it’s as if you’re strangers. Bill wants nothing to do with you, but you can’t figure out what changed his mind for the life of you.

By the time your date with Harley rolls around, you’re so distracted you hardly want to go at all. You try to convince yourself that you’ll have a good time– Harley is a nice guy, and you’ve gotten along well in the few times you’ve spoken. Still, you can’t deny that your heart’s not in it. The boy you really want to see tonight hardly wants to see you at all, but that’s not Harley’s fault, is it?

You steady yourself and go to meet Harley in the courtyard. He tells you that you look nice and you smile like you mean it, and maybe you do. You make small talk on the walk to Hogsmeade, and by the time you’re slipping inside and ordering drinks, you find that you’re honestly having a good time. Harley is kind and funny and he pays attention to you, and all of this should be more than enough to convince you to like him. Yet even though Harley is close enough to perfect, there is one thing stopping you from loving him, and that is the simple fact that he isn’t Bill.

It’s wrong, you know it. Here you are on a lovely date with a lovely boy, and you won’t give him a chance because he isn’t the off-limits best friend’s brother who won’t even talk to you. You’re even worse off than you thought. How could you not enjoy a date like this? How could you be so hung up on the false dream of Bill Weasley that you can’t focus on the boy who actually likes you?

Despite your best efforts, you just can’t convince yourself that you want this, and you find yourself giving an excuse about having promised Flitwick to tutor some first year still stuck on Wingardium Leviosa and slip away. You’re pretty sure Harley buys your excuse, he’s still just as kind as ever, but your stomach twists when he lightly kisses you before you leave and you practically run away the second you’re out of eyesight.

You take the walk back to Hogwarts to steady your nerves. You don’t want a relationship with Harley and that’s fine. You can find a way to gently let him down later, but right now you just want to be alone and think about what you can’t have. Most of the students are still in Hogsmeade, so the castle seems almost deserted when you get back.

Almost, that is, because you’ve hardly crossed the threshold into the courtyard on your journey back to your common room when you spy a familiar face turning around a corner. You’re so surprised to see Bill that you forget he hasn’t been speaking to you recently.

“You’re not in Hogsmeade?” You ask.

Bill stops short when he sees you. You swear he starts to twist around as if to run, but he’s polite enough to realize that would be unconscionably rude so he stays. “No,” Bill murmurs at last, “I didn’t want to– I was busy, I mean. Exams coming up and all that.”

You’re pretty sure he actually just completed his latest round of exams, but you keep that to yourself. Instead, you nod a bit too quickly. “Oh– Yeah, that makes sense.”

“You’re also not in Hogsmeade,” Bill notices. “I thought you were– I thought you had that date. With that Ravenclaw.”

You cringe at the mention. “I, uh, left early.”

Impossibly, Bill seems to straighten up at this. “You did?”

“Yeah,” you say, making a face to show your discomfort, “He was– I don’t know, it just wasn’t right. I couldn’t bear to stick around anymore, so I left.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t right? He wasn’t mean or anything, was he? I’ll hex him if he was, I swear–” Bill’s oddly indignant at the thought, but you cut him off, laughing slightly.

“No need for hexing, Bill, we just weren’t the right fit for each other. Better off as friends, I think. Besides, you can’t be hexing anyone. What about your aspirations for becoming a prefect?”

Bill shrugs. “I’d manage to convince the professors that the hexing was done for a good cause. I was just protecting your honor.”

“My honor,” you say, biting back a smile. “Of course. That’s very noble.”

Bill looks at you when you say this, and you realize that over the course of the conversation you’ve drifted closer and closer to each other until you’re practically touching. “I’m not quite as noble as you might think, Y/N,” he whispers.

Your breath catches in your throat. “I hardly believe that. You’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“That’s not true,” Bill insists quietly. “For one thing, I have been spending the last week hoping that your date was a disaster. That’s not too noble, is it?”

Your eyes widen. “You wanted my date with Harley to go badly? Why?”

Bill hums softly under his breath, idly raising his hand to fix the crooked collar of your shirt. “Isn’t it obvious? I didn’t want him anywhere near you. If anyone was going to take you out, I wanted it to be me.”

You’ve imagined something like this about a hundred times, confessions in the rain or the snow or late at night in the Gryffindor common room. He’d bring you flowers, maybe, or hold your hand. It was always in your head, though, never real. Never something that you could have ever actually heard him say, yet here Bill is now, after all this time, telling you that he wants you, and it’s true. Months of hoping, of dreaming, and you were right all along. Not even Felix Felicis could make you this lucky.

“You like me?” you ask quietly, hardly daring to believe it.

The corners of Bill’s lips twitch up with a smile he can’t quite suppress. “I think I’ve liked you for a while, Y/N. Didn’t realize it until you said you were going out with someone else and I got so mad I could hardly think straight.”

Your face falls at the memory. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Bill shakes his head quickly. “Not at you, Y/N. Never at you. Just mad at myself that I had so many chances and I let them all slip right through my fingers. Then I’d have to watch you with that boy all the time, wishing it was me. It was one thing when you were always with my brother, but I knew he didn’t feel that way, so it was fine.”

You hesitate a moment more. “Wait, Charlie. He’ll kill me if we–”

Bill grins. “Let me handle Charlie. To be honest, I think he saw this coming a long time ago.”

“That’s one thing he knew before you, then,” you tease.

Bill’s jaw drops in mock outrage, and to get you back, he leans forward and kisses you. Instantly, all thoughts of friends or Harley or anything drop from your mind, and all you can think about is Bill within reach at last, finally wanting you, finally knowing what you’ve known all this time. It’s perfect, and for once, you’re not wanting for anything else.

harry potter tag list: @blondsauduun, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope, @faerieroyal

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[joonie-beanie]

Lovin' On (Kaeya) | [Reader/Kaeya]

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, f!reader

Words: ~3.3k

Note: This is a bonus chapter from my fic "And They Were Roommates". Since it basically functions as a one-off smut, I'm cross posting it to tumblr. However, if you want to know the backstory to their relationship, I suggest reading the whole fic. (If you don't feel like reader a 34 chapter slow burn, just know for context that the Reader is dating both Diluc and Kaeya, and they're all college roommates.)

One thing you love about your relationship with your boyfriends is the consideration always shown between the three of you.

Making sure to keep one another fed, checking in during stressful times at work and school, and in general trying to make sure everyone's needs are being met.

…including sexual needs.

But part of you thinks when it comes to sex, they give more than they take—always insistent on making you cum first—always making sure you feel loved and pleasured even when their dicks are weeping and impatient to feel your warmth around them.

Over time they've come to worship you like you're their prized possession—every inch of you being caressed and adored.

And, of course, you love it. But, sometimes you wonder if you reciprocate equally. If they realize how infatuated you are with them in turn.

So, naturally, you start to scheme.

…although it's not like you need to concoct some sort of big plan. Sex with either of them is a natural occurrence throughout the week, so it's only a matter of time until you end up in one of their beds.

And it just so happens to be Kaeya's first.

With Diluc out of the apartment, working at the bar, you eventually wander to Kaeya's room.

He's sitting at his desk grading some papers when you pop through his doorway, but as soon as he spots you, he spins in his chair and holds out his arms.

You giggle and walk up to him. He engulfs you in a hug, and after a moment stands from his chair and flops you both down onto his bed.

“Need a cuddle break?” you tease him, snuggling into his chest. He smiles at you and rests his chin comfortably on your head, your bodies fitting together.

“Perhaps.”

For a few minutes, the two of you simply lay together, enjoying each other's company…but then, Kaeya's leg which is slotted between yours moves up—putting pressure against your pussy. And his hands wander from your waist to your ass and hips, where he squeezes and gently grinds you on his thigh. 

Instantly, you tilt your head back and squint your eyes at him playfully.

“I thought this was a cuddle break?”

“Well, it could be a different kind of break too…,” he mumbles, and when you roll your eyes, he smiles and leans down to kiss you.

You let yourself enjoy the languid pace of his kisses, and the way your bodies rock together—arousal fanning in your gut, and Kaeya's dick beginning to harden. It's not until Kaeya groans and begins to slip his hand into your pants that you decide it's time to take charge.

Abruptly, you untangle yourself from Kaeya and sit up—throwing one of your legs over him. He blinks at you in surprise, not having expected this move from you (although the sight of you straddling him certainly isn't one he'll complain about).

“Princess?”

“Would you be alright with me taking control?” you ask him, and while his dick immediately jumping should be answer enough, Kaeya still makes sure to confirm verbally.

“Of course.”

Kaeya's not exactly sure what you have in mind, but being at your mercy sounds like a good time to him.

You smile at his answer, and then lean over—tugging open his nightstand drawer.

“Do you still have those cuffs in here…? Ah—”

You snag them before Kaeya can say anything, and Kaeya shifts beneath you—excited.

“You're using the cuffs?”

“Yep, put your hands up at the headboard.”

He does as he's told without question, and you can't help but praise him as you reach up to secure his hands.

“What a good listener.”

You weave the cuffs between one of the headboard slats and then click them around his wrists. He gives them a little tug to make sure they're neither too loose nor tight, and when he doesn't complain, you sit back on his hips.

Kaeya stares up at you, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“So what's the plan, princess?”

“You'll find out,” you respond, slipping one of your hands beneath his shirt. You slide your palm onto his chest, and then bend down to kiss him. He raises his head to meet you, and you smile against his lips.

Clearly okay with relinquishing control, Kaeya allows you to set the pace—following your lead as your kisses become open-mouthed. He quietly groans when your fingers brush against his nipple, and you give his chest a little squeeze—teasing him.

When the oxygen in your lungs starts to run low, you break the string of kiss, and his eyes slide open, meeting yours. 

Seeing the dilation of his pupils—his gaze filled with adoration and arousal as he stares at you—it spurs you on.

Rather than return to his lips, you inch lower, mouthing at his jaw. He instinctively angles his head back to give you more access, his breath catching as your lips and tongue caress his sensitive skin.

“Should I mark you up?” you mumble. “So you can show everyone I've claimed you?”

Kaeya chuckles, a little breathless.

“I don't have concealer in my shade—mm!”

His words cut off at the feeling of your teeth nipping at his neck—your mouth suctioning on the offended spot a beat later. Your tongue traces the divots your teeth had left, and once you're satisfied, you detach from him with a little pop.

You happily survey your work—proud of the fresh red splotch tucked just below his ear. By the morning it will be a nice shade of purple.

“Baby,” Kaeya pants, shifting beneath you. His dick is at full-mast now, yet still uncomfortably tucked into his pants. “How will I hide that?”

“You can try to with your hair,” you respond, and he can hear the grin in your voice as you go back to kissing him. You don't mark him with anymore hickeys, but leave a trail of invisible kisses across his skin—goosebumps rising in your wake. 

“Though, I'm sure your hair will move, and some people will get a glance at it. But is that so bad? Others knowing that you have someone who is so obsessed with you they want to mark you as theirs?”

As you speak, you slide Kaeya's shirt up his torso, until it catches under his armpits. Your hands then ghost over his bare skin—fondling his chest and his waist—your nails dragging between valleys of toned muscle—and Kaeya's breathing quickens. 

“What has gotten into you today?” he asks, though he's far from upset. 

Before you answer, you sit up and reach one hand behind you—your fingers slipping beneath the band of Kaeyas's sweats. He shudders as your hand curls around his dick—your thumb teasing at his slit and smearing leaking pre-cum

“I want to make you feel good,” you say, Kaeya's body twitching beneath you as you begin to slowly stroke his length.

“Baby, you always make me feel good,” he promises. 

“You always make me feel good,” you argue, your brows furrowing slightly, and despite how deliciously good the friction of your hand feels, your words pull Kaeya back from where he's started to drift off into mindless bliss.

“Making you feel good makes me feel good,” he reassures you sternly, as if what you're saying doesn't quite make sense.

You huff, and start moving your hand faster. Kaeya's jaw clenches as he attempts to keep it together.

“I know, we all get something out of it, but—you two always put me first. And for once, I want to put you first. To spoil you a little, and love on you.”

“Princess,” Kaeya says. “It pains me to say this, but—stop for a second. Look at me.”

You do as he says, ceasing the motion of your hand and meeting his eyes.

“If Diluc and I put you first it's because we want to. Seeing your pleasure gives us pleasure too, so you don't need to feel like you owe us anything in return.”

You know he's right…

“However,” he continues, “if you want to take charge sometimes—to show us your love like this—I know we'll both welcome it. But I want you to do it because you want to, not because you feel obligated. Alright?”

You nod, feeling a little silly now.

“Alright.”

“Good…now, do you want to stop or—?”

Your response to resume the motion of your hand—Kaeya's words catching in his throat.

“I want you desperate for me,” you say with a little smile, and Kaeya throws his head back, moaning.

“Princess, I'm always desperate for you.”

You giggle at his words, your hand gripping his cock tighter, and moving a little faster. His breathing picks up—a flush spreading across his chest—and your cunt clenches around nothing at the sight of him starting to unravel beneath you.

You need more too.

Kaeya almost groans in disappointment when your hand disappears from his cock, but luckily, you're nowhere near done with him. 

You twist yourself around and hook your hands on the waistband of his pants—shoving them down his thighs. He breathes a sigh of relief as his cock springs free—resting heavy against his hip. He's shiny with his own pre-cum, veins tracking up his shaft, and the sight of him makes your insides ache.

“You have such a nice dick,” you tell him seriously. “In general, you're just so fucking hot. Do I tell you that enough?”

“I wouldn't mind hearing it more,” he responds breathlessly, watching as you hurriedly remove your own bottoms—tossing them off the bed as soon as they reach your ankle.

You take him in your hand again, and a part of Kaeya prays that you'll slip him inside of you. That he'll finally get to feel that tight, warm cunt that always takes him so perfectly.

And for a second, he thinks that's what will happen—the head of his cock nestling between your folds. But instead, you lower your hips and trap his dick between your bodies—the folds of your pussy hugging his length.

Then, you start grinding on him. 

Your arousal acts as lubricant, your hands gripping his waist and using him as leverage as you rock yourself back and forth.

“You always fuck me so good,” you pant, your eyes fluttering closed as the head of his cock bumps your clit. “Even from the first time we hooked up—you were always stuck in my mind.”

Your fingernails press into his skin as the rub of his dick against your clit drags you deeper into your arousal, but the inkling of pain only makes Kaeya want harder.

“Fuck, Princess,” be practically begs, his hips rolling up to meet yours. You groan at the action, feeling like you're starting to fall apart as well. 

You want him to stuff you full, but first—

You suddenly lean down, your chest pressing to his abdomen. You brace one arm at his side, the other reaching up to take a handful of his hair, and then—before Kaeya can even fully digest the change in position—your mouth suctions around his nipple.

His hips buck, causing the head of his cock to catch at your entrance, and he mindlessly tugs at the cuffs—his horny brain yelling at him to grab your hips and force them back down so he can finally sheath himself inside of you.

Alas, you remain oblivious to his plight—too busy mouthing at his pecks—leaving a few more marks where no one but you can see.

He writhes beneath you, and you give his hair a stern tug, one that only tears a needy curse from his lips.

“Baby, please,” he finally begs, unable to wait a moment longer. At this rate, he'll cum mostly untouched—just from the friction of your entrance hugging the head of his cock.

You pepper one last kiss against the hot skin of his chest, and then lean up—finding his lips.

He moans into the kiss, yearning pinched between his brows.

“I've got you,” you promise, whispering the words against him, and then lean back.

Without wasting time, you take his dick in your hand and guide it to your entrance. He groans happily as the first few inches of his length sink inside of you.

By the time you've taken all of him, he feels like he's in heaven, and when you begin rolling your hips, he ascends even higher.

“Oh, baby, you're so good for me,” he praises you, the wet sound of sex filling his bedroom. You breathlessly laugh at his words, your abdomen tightening as your arousal builds. 

For a minute, words aren't spoken—the space around you filled only with your and Kaeya's panting, and the sinful plap of your body bouncing on his. But then, you see the muscles in Kaeya's torso tighten, and his breathing catch.

He's gonna cum.

He throws his head back, heady sounds escaping him. 

He's gonna cum…he's gonna—

His eyes snap open, head lifting off the bed. He stares at the space where your bodies meet—his cock disappearing inside of you, his dick shiny only with arousal, and not a condom.

“Princess, we didn't—,” he starts to say, worried, but you cut him off.

“It's fine,” you say, not stopping. “Cum in me.”

Your words have Kaeya's balls tightening, and he clenches his jaw, trying not to immediately lose it.

“Are you sure?”

You'd gotten on birth control last summer after Diluc's slip up on vacation, but even so, the three of you have still been using condoms just to be safe.

“Yes,” you tell him, sweat beading on your brow. A somewhat tired, but still teasing smile pulls at your lips.

“Fill me up, pretty boy.”

“Fuck,” he bites, and it only takes two more rolls of your hips before he's doing just that.

His wrists tug at the cuffs, his body tensing and a string of curses leaving his lips as he empties himself inside of you.

You slow your motions, moving just enough to help him ride out his pleasure. And when he finally goes lax—all the tension having left his body—you stop.

Reaching up, you cup his cheeks with your hands, and his eyes slide open to look at you.

“You look cute all fucked out,” you tell him. You bend down to kiss him, and his dick slips out of you—making you both jump.

Nonetheless, he meets you in the middle for a sweet kiss, and then lightly tugs at his wrists.

“Will you free me, princess? I miss touching you.”

You giggle at his words, and reach over to his nightstand to grab the key. A beat later, the cuffs unlock with an audible click, and Kaeya sighs in relief, rubbing at his wrists.

You notice the indents in his skin, and frown, wondering if you'd made them a click too tight. 

“Here, let me get you some lotion—,” you start to say, planting one foot on the mattress as you prepare to climb over him and get off. But, Kaeya doesn't let you get far.

As soon as you press up and create some space between your bodies, Kaeya uses it to his advantage. 

He grabs your hips, forcing you to stay in place, and then wiggles down the mattress.

His sudden hold of you forces you to brace yourself against the headboard, and when you finally catch your balance, you glance down to ask him what exactly he's doing.

Except, when you look down, you find you're no longer straddling Kaeya's waist, but his face.

He grins up at you from between your thighs, his grip vice when you attempt to sit up straighter and move your pussy away from him.

“Your turn, sweetheart,” he tells you, and before you can protest, he drags your hips downward. 

The first lick of his tongue between your folds has you shaking—arousal that had started to fade fanning back to life in an instant.

Kaeya hums happily at the taste of your arousal on his tongue—unbothered when he also tastes something that he determines must be himself. 

“Kaeya,” you moan when he moves one hand from your hip to your ass, gently coaxing your lower half forward and then back—urging you to ride his face.

And you don't hesitate, propping yourself against the headboard as you begin grinding on his tongue. He sucks and licks at you dutifully, unholy wet sounds born between your cunt and the suction of his mouth.

Part of him wishes you were cumming on his cock, but another part of him is prideful knowing he can get you off like this—by bullying your sensitive little clit until you can't take it anymore.

And you're quickly reaching that point—your chest heaving and pussy clenching.

You relinquish your grip on the headboard in favor of grabbing his hair, your thighs clenching on either side of his head as you truly ride him—using his face how you want. And Kaeya couldn't be happier, a satisfied groan muffled against your pussy.

“Oh, fuck,” you curse, your voice hitching. Your eyes flutter shut, the tension in your belly holding on by a thread. And then, Kaeya holds you down and hurriedly flicks his tongue back and forth across your clit, and you lose it.

You grip his hair tighter, his name falling broken from your lips as you cum on his mouth. 

He watches you through half lidded as you come undone, his tongue continuing to lap at your clit and drag out your pleasure as long as he can.

But he knows the waves have passed when your thighs loosen around his skull—your body sagging. You attempt to raise your body off of him as you catch your breath, but your muscles and nerves are shot after all that riding—your legs shaking as you try to move.

Kaeya notices right away and kindly helps you, guiding one of your legs over his torso. Once you're no longer straddling him, you flop down onto the mattress.

He immediately curls himself against your back—his hands wandering beneath your shirt.

“Next time, make sure to take this off,” he tells you, giving one of your breasts a squeeze. “I like seeing how they bounce when you ride me.”

“Noted,” you say with a tired laugh.

The two of you lay there cuddling for a few minutes, both of your bodies relaxing and recovering. Then, Kaeya can't help but ask—

“So have you tried this on Diluc, yet? The “spoiling us and loving on us” agenda you just took out on me?”

“No,” you respond, rolling your eyes at his phrasing. “You were my first stop.”

“Oh, now I feel really special,” he says, only-half joking.

You roll around to face him, and he smiles at you.

“You made me feel really good, princess. Thank you.”

He kisses you softly, and a pretty blush paints your cheeks.

“Of course. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says, and then sits up, glancing around. 

“I don't have any water in here. Are you alright if I go grab some?”

“Please and thank you,” you respond, feeling parched.

Immediately, Kaeya alights from the bed and heads for the kitchen, but pauses in the doorway to his bedroom. He glances back at you, a gleeful grin on his face.

“Diluc might lose it,” he says. “Putting him in my position, he would have probably blushed so hard he died. Will you tell me how it goes after you give him his turn?”

Picking up a pillow from his bed, you chuck it at him.

“Go get us water!!”

Kaeya chuckles—

“Yes, boss.”

—and then disappears into the hall.

You're not quite sure how Diluc's “lovin’ on” session will go, or when the opportunity will present itself, but you do know one thing: despite how much you love them being the dominant ones in bed, you definitely need to start taking charge more often.

[aventurineswife]

ok so- I haven’t played Genshin or any of the other games in like years so-

I never seen ratio-

but what about ratio with a s/o that is always curious? Like I heard he is a genius and him with a lover that like to learn things would be cute

Curiosity Binds Us

Summary: Ratio is known for his sharp intellect and unyielding pursuit of knowledge. His lover, however, possesses an insatiable curiosity that constantly challenges him in unexpected ways. As they spend time together in the grand library of the starship, Ratio finds himself reluctantly yet fondly indulging their endless questions. Through playful debates and deep discussions, he realizes that their curiosity might just be the most endearing thing about them.

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Intellectual Romance, Playful Banter, Mutual Respect, Established Relationship, Ratio Being Ratio, Curious Reader.

The library aboard the Intelligentsia Guild’s starship was vast, a labyrinth of knowledge spanning countless civilizations. Shelves of ancient texts and digital archives stretched toward the ceiling, filled with wisdom from the most brilliant minds across the universe. Among them sat Ratio, absorbed in a holographic projection of his latest research.

Then, there was you.

Your fingers traced the spines of the books, your eyes darting between titles as you absorbed every bit of information you could. You had always been curious—insatiably so. Knowledge called to you like a melody, and you could never resist chasing its tune.

“Ratio,” you murmured, settling into the chair beside him. He hummed in response, his eyes not straying from the floating text before him.

You leaned in, resting your chin on your palm. “What are you working on?”

“A theorem on interdimensional causality,” he replied, his tone as composed as ever. “The prevailing theories are—frankly—insufficient.”

You blinked, processing his words. “That sounds… amazing.”

He finally turned his gaze toward you, one elegant brow arching in mild amusement. “You don’t even know what it means.”

You grinned. “Not yet. But you’ll explain it to me, won’t you?”

Ratio sighed—more for show than genuine exasperation. He had long since accepted that your curiosity was as relentless as gravity. He found it perplexing at first, then… endearing.

“You wish to understand interdimensional causality?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded eagerly. “I want to understand everything.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Then you are ambitious. A respectable trait.”

You beamed at the rare compliment, scooting closer. “So, tell me.”

Ratio observed you for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just slightly. Most people frustrated him with their lack of comprehension, their unwillingness to challenge their own ignorance. But you? You sought knowledge with unyielding enthusiasm. You wanted to learn—not for prestige, not for recognition—but simply because you found joy in understanding.

That, he could respect.

He gestured toward the holographic equations before him. “Very well. Interdimensional causality refers to the relationship between events across parallel realities. If an action in one dimension influences another, then—”

He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the way your eyes sparkled with intrigue, your expression one of complete fascination.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a rare chuckle. “You truly are relentless.”

“And you love that about me.”

“Hmph. Debatable.”

You laughed, nudging his arm playfully. “Well, keep explaining, Doctor. I’m listening.”

Ratio rolled his eyes, but as he continued his lesson, he spoke just a little slower, making sure you grasped each concept before moving forward. He would never admit it outright, but he enjoyed this—the endless discussions, the late-night debates, the way you challenged him just as much as he challenged you.

For all his intellect, for all his confidence, Ratio had never believed in the idea of a perfect intellectual equal. And perhaps he was right.

But then there was you. And perhaps… that was better.

[mauricemylittlemeowmeow]

tonight's psychotic meltdown:

[ahalliance]

an important thing to understand with qetoiles is that he made every one of his relationships feel special without ever placing the importance of a person over another . he was naturally closer to some people than others but he never had A special person, if you get me

[maddisandy]

everyone has some pretty reasonable dynamics and then there's soleil and gale

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

just finished season 2 of arcane :(

[liberaljane]

Women's Not So Distant History

This #WomensHistoryMonth, let's not forget how many of our rights were only won in recent decades, and weren’t acquired by asking nicely and waiting. We need to fight for our rights. Here's are a few examples:

📍 Before 1974's Fair Credit Opportunity Act made it illegal for financial institutions to discriminate against applicants' gender, banks could refuse women a credit card. Women won the right to open a bank account in the 1960s, but many banks still refused without a husband’s signature. This allowed men to continue to have control over women’s bank accounts. Unmarried women were often refused service by financial institutions entirely.

📍 Before 1977, sexual harassment was not considered a legal offense. That changed when a woman brought her boss to court after she refused his sexual advances and was fired. The court stated that her termination violated the 1974 Civil Rights Act, which made employment discrimination illegal.⚖️

📍 In 1969, California became the first state to pass legislation to allow no-fault divorce. Before then, divorce could only be obtained if a woman could prove that her husband had committed serious faults such as adultery. 💍By 1977, nine states had adopted no-fault divorce laws, and by late 1983, every state had but two. The last, New York, adopted a law in 2010.

📍In 1967, Kathrine Switzer, entered the Boston Marathon under the name "K.V. Switzer." At the time, the Amateur Athletics Union didn't allow women. Once discovered, staff tried to remove Switzer from the race, but she finished. AAU did not formally accept women until fall 1971.

📍 In 1972, Lillian Garland, a receptionist at a California bank, went on unpaid leave to have a baby and when she returned, her position was filled. Her lawsuit led to 1978's Pregnancy Discrimination Act, which found that discriminating against pregnant people is unlawful

📍 It wasn’t until 2016 that gay marriage was legal in all 50 states. Previously, laws varied by state, and while many states allowed for civil unions for same-sex couples, it created a separate but equal standard. In 2008, California was the first state to achieve marriage equality, only to reverse that right following a ballot initiative later that year. 

📍In 2018, Utah and Idaho were the last two states that lacked clear legislation protecting chest or breast feeding parents from obscenity laws. At the time, an Idaho congressman complained women would, "whip it out and do it anywhere,"

📍 In 1973, the Supreme Court affirmed the right to safe legal abortion in Roe v. Wade. At the time of the decision, nearly all states outlawed abortion with few exceptions. In 1965, illegal abortions made up one-sixth of all pregnancy- and childbirth-related deaths. Unfortunately after years of abortion restrictions and bans, the Supreme Court overturned Roe in 2022. Since then, 14 states have fully banned care, and another 7 severely restrict it – leaving most of the south and midwest without access. 

📍 Before 1973, women were not able to serve on a jury in all 50 states. However, this varied by state: Utah was the first state to allow women to serve jury duty in 1898. Though, by 1927, only 19 states allowed women to serve jury duty. The Civil Rights Act of 1957 gave women the right to serve on federal juries, though it wasn't until 1973 that all 50 states passed similar legislation

📍 Before 1988, women were unable to get a business loan on their own. The Women's Business Ownership Act of 1988 allowed women to get loans without a male co-signer and removed other barriers to women in business. The number of women-owned businesses increased by 31 times in the last four decades. 

Free download

📍 Before 1965, married women had no right to birth control. In Griswold v. Connecticut (1965), the Supreme Court ruled that banning the use of contraceptives violated the right to marital privacy.

📍 Before 1967, interracial couples didn’t have the right to marry. In Loving v. Virginia, the Supreme Court found that anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional. In 2000, Alabama was the last State to remove its anti-miscegenation laws from the books.

📍 Before 1972, unmarried women didn’t have the right to birth control. While married couples gained the right in 1967, it wasn’t until Eisenstadt v. Baird seven years later, that the Supreme Court affirmed the right to contraception for unmarried people.

📍 In 1974, the last “Ugly Laws” were repealed in Chicago. “Ugly Laws” allowed the police to arrest and jail people with visible disabilities for being seen in public. People charged with ugly laws were either charged a fine or held in jail. ‘Ugly Laws’ were a part of the late 19th century Victorian Era poor laws. 

📍 In 1976, Hawaii was the last state to lift requirements that a woman take her husband’s last name.  If a woman didn’t take her husband’s last name, employers could refuse to issue her payroll and she could be barred from voting. 

📍 It wasn’t until 1993 that marital assault became a crime in all 50 states. Historically, intercourse within marriage was regarded as a “right” of spouses. Before 1974, in all fifty U.S. states, men had legal immunity for assaults their wives. Oklahoma and North Carolina were the last to change the law in 1993.

📍  In 1990, the Americans with Disability Act (ADA) – most comprehensive disability rights legislation in U.S. history – was passed. The ADA protected disabled people from employment discrimination. Previously, an employer could refuse to hire someone just because of their disability.

📍 Before 1993, women weren’t allowed to wear pants on the Senate floor. That changed when Sen. Moseley Braun (D-IL), & Sen. Barbara Mikulski (D-MD) wore trousers - shocking the male-dominated Senate. Their fashion statement ultimately led to the dress code being clarified to allow women to wear pants. 

📍 Emergency contraception (Plan B) wasn't approved by the FDA until 1998. While many can get emergency contraception at their local drugstore, back then it required a prescription. In 2013, the FDA removed age limits & allowed retailers to stock it directly on the shelf (although many don’t).

📍  In Lawrence v. Texas (2003), the Supreme Court ruled that anti-cohabitation laws were unconstitutional. Sometimes referred to as the ‘'Living in Sin' statute, anti-cohabitation laws criminalize living with a partner if the couple is unmarried. Today, Mississippi still has laws on its books against cohabitation. 

[kianamaiart]

IDWTBAMG CHARACTER FUN FACTS

Well, some fun facts and mostly lore or character relationship stuff. Under the cut!

AIKA

Aika became the next Star Guardian at age 13. She’s 15 now

Aika’s want to help people and relentless positivity were part of the reason she was chosen to be the Star Guardian: Guardian of the Stars in the first place. While her love for the job has fizzled out, this aspect of her character still a core part of her.

She’s very kind and gentle person but that kinda goes out the window when magical duties are brought into the equation

Her and Hoshi care about one another but their relationship is currently a bit tense. They’re usually pretty quick to make jabs at one another

She struggled to get used to the platform shoes in her magical girl outfit

She LOVES food. And her eyes are usually way too big for her stomach leading to many a food coma

Aika and her teammates worked in secret for the most part, not really being allowed to “exist in the real world”. Because of this, with the free time she had, Aika would read a lot (she’s actually very book smart)

Aika loves extreme sports and is an adrenaline junky. However, rollercoasters freak her out for some reason

Aika drags Zira into lots of new eperiences. Zira usually ends up appreciating the experiences after the fact 

Aika’s a morning person

ZIRA

Zira is smart but doesn’t apply herself in school

They have a lot of artistic interests, particularly art, music and fashion

She likes the idea of writing fanfiction in theory but writing’s sooooo much work. Any ideas she has just kinda live in her head, causing her to zone out and daydream a ton

While shy for the most part, Zira can be very blunt and isn’t necessarily a pushover

Prior to Aika, she didn’t have a lot (any) friends at school but she’s mostly content doing her own thing

They’d hang out in Miss’ classroom a lot, either to show her Moon Sailor stuff against her will or just to have lunch

Zira loves playing video games and especially loves visual novels

Zira develops a crush on Aika pretty quickly. Aika’s kindness, authenticity and bravery is inspiring to Zira. Also Aika’s the only other person her age to really give her the time of day. And also she thinks Aika’s pretty

She thinks Hoshi’s really cool and since Aika doesn’t particularly enjoy talking about her job, Zira usually goes to Hoshi for magical girl questions. Initially Hoshi doesn’t trust Zira with that information but is really flattered to have someone who looks up to them and is interested in everything they have to say. So they indulge when appropriate.

Zira’s a night owl

HOSHI

Hoshi saved Aika when she was really young and has kept her safe ever since

Hoshi and Aika started off kind of like siblings but Hoshi then became her boss, making their relationship a bit strained and more complicated

Their role as a magical mascot managerial in nature. They make Aika and her team do their jobs, follow protocol, teach them how to use their powers, keep up morale, do timecards, etc.

While Hoshi oversees this team, their responsibility is primarily to the Star Guardian

Hoshi, much like Aika, used to be really chipper and a bit more goofy but Aika’s kinda worn them down overtime

Hoshi’s not a fan of Earth, but in an effort to better understand Aika’s feelings, tries out being a human and doing Earth activities

Hoshi takes a while to get used to their human form. They’re really clumsy in it

They have a hard time making hands for their human form. Their hands are slightly different every time but equally terrifying. They eventually get better at making them though.

Hoshi doesn't use their human form too much. Most people just assume their Aika's weird pet bird

Hoshi doesn't need to eat but discovers they enjoy the act of eating

ECLIPSE

Eclipse is one of the few humans that know that Aika and the other magical girls exist

He met Aika pretty early on in her magical girl career and he was immediately enamored with her

Since finding about magical girls, he’s obsessively tried keeping track of them, leading him to start acting out in order to get their attention. They only really care because he knows their secret and they play along

He and Devoid made his current outfit together. DeVoid wanted to make it black but Eclipse was set on making it very bright and showy

Eclipse currently resides with DeVoid. He gets on her nerves sometimes but they both do care about each other

Eclipse is a pretty good cook 

Eclipse isn’t particularly hateful but he’s really got beef with Zira for some reason

It’s hard to tell if Eclipse is really in love with Aika or if he just loves the concept of their nonexistent relationship

Eclipse has a lovely singing voice

His real name is Elio

LADY DeVOID

DeVoid was banished to space by a Star Guardian. For a LONG time she lived (unconsciously) as a sort of celestial being that would spit out monsters that the Star Guardians for many generations would have to face. While not ideal it was better than fighting DeVoid before she got to full power.

DeVoid finally wakes up in the present timeline, with no memories other than being banished by a Star Guardian and wanting revenge and knowing that she’s supposed to be able to create monsters. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t remember how to use her powers. She doesn’t even remember her name, so she came up with “Lady DeVoid”

DeVoid loves human reality TV. Specifically competition shows. She loves how petty and evil people become. This is also where most of her knowledge of humans comes from

Though DeVoid is pretty stoic, her ears are very expressive

DeVoid taught Eclipse how to do his makeup

She really likes Eclipse’s cooking

When she’s out and about she’s usually wearing sunglasses because it’s simply too bright for her

DeVoid does have to work a normal job in the human world and simply goes by “Dee”

After being in the cold, dark reaches of space and since coming to Earth, DeVoid has grown to love soft things

People rarely question her appearance (because that’s just rude). But when people do ask what’s up with her horns she just says “it’s a condition” and that’s usually enough for people to just end the convo there.

MISS

Miss loves her job more than anything. She’s a very accomplished teacher and takes a lot of time to make sure all of her students succeed

Miss cares about Zira a lot. Always staying in her classroom just in case Zira wants to stop by for lunch, giving her advice or giving her extra tutoring as needed 

Because of Zira, Miss has become a closet Moon Sailor fan

Though Aika’s just started attending school, she and Miss have bonded quite a bit. Aika’s positive disposition and cheeriness bring Miss a lot of joy

Miss keeps her personal life (not that she really has one) out of work but finds herself opening up a little more than she’d like to Aika and Zira

Miss used to get really antsy during summer breaks, leading her to start teaching summer school to fill the time

Her workaholic nature was the reason for her and her ex-wife’s divorce

Miss has gone on one date since her divorce. The idea of having starting over is exhausting to her so she’s mostly okay just being single

Miss doesn’t really like coffee but she drinks a lot of it out of necessity

Miss has a ton of tattoos

[enhaflixer]

psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!):  a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

-

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together. 

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips. 

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

- 

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

 - 

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

- 

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

-

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

-

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

-

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

-

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

-

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

-

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

-

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

-

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

-

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

-

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

-

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

-

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

-

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

-

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

-

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

-

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

-

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.” 

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?” 

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?” 

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me."  he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

Taglist: @vrusha01 @cupiddolle @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @hveanlyanqelic @miuwonis @outroherrr @weyukinluv @riribelle @wonzbear @zhangyi-johee @randomanothercreature @wolfhardbby @httpenhoon @annovaz @seonhoon @lovelycassy @noidnoentry @btsreadss @linlianxin @icrieliterature @aussie-boys-wife @woniefull @ikeuwoniee @en-doll @ambi01 @thinkinboutbin @tobiosbbyghorl @semi-wife @fancypeacepersona @exhaleinhalepowder @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20 @nshmrarki

[hadesrise]

## murder for you, baby !!

summary──── a justifiable serial killer on the loose, and jason finds himself being enamoured by him.

pairings──── jason todd x dbd!ghostface!male reader

warnings──── nsfw content, serial killer themes, dead dove do not eat, sexual arousal in response to violence or torture, murder, blood, deaths, gore, foul language, bottom!jason, top!reader, reader’s physique is described as tall and broad ( the slasher build ), possessiveness, choking, praise kink, blood kink, knife play ( reader carving his initials on jason ), toxic!reader ( ? ), sorta toxic relationship but also not, unprotected sex, love-making, pet names, overstimulation, dumbification, degradation if you squint, lil’ bit of manipulation, creampie, doggy style, mating press, biting, marking, oral ( r. receiving ), voice kink ( ? )

author’s note──── not me coming back with halloween themed fic after halloween days have passed lol. i’m alive, y’all !! hope you enjoy this one that took a fucking month to write 😭

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ; this post may contain disturbing contents that may not be suitable for every reader — a reader discretion is advised. MINORS DNI !!

Gotham’s been terrorized by the worst people you could ever imagine, the kind that’ll stick with you forever and take residence to your nightmares if you were unfortunate enough. Many were hurt or even murdered as a result of the villains’ terrorization, with vigilantes running through the night to capture and send them to Arkham Asylum.

With the existence of a Psychopathic Clown, his equally psychopathic girlfriend with PHD’s that’s been wasted down the line, the Mother Nature freak, the ridiculously huge man with a gas mask on, the green coloured living question mark, and many others, no one would’ve ever thought anything could get any worse.

Until some criminals’ bodies turn up across the streets in such disturbing manner that haunts the witnesses to death.

One, a criminal who murdered young and homeless boys, gutted deeply to the point of their intestines hanging out. Another, a criminal known for kidnapping and selling people’s organs, mutilated with their torso torn back to expose the organs settled inside of them. Another one, a priest-turned-criminal who’s been violating women and children, crucified naked in his own church with his eyes gouged out, a Bible verse carved in his chest; ‘And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.’ Matthew 18:9; his penis cut off and body seemingly violated as well. Another more turns up, a governor-turned-criminal who’s been feeding into the rich despite their oath of generosity towards the poor, severely tortured with the skin on his back cut open, ribs severed from the spine and broken to the sides in order to create the illusion of wings, fluttering lungs pulled out from their chest cavity to resemble an eagle’s wings, with the word ‘traitor’ carved on his forehead.

The brutality and gruesome nature of the murders has set an alarming panic and fear across Gotham City that forced civilians into locking their doors at night. Criminals who were unidentified and not found by Gotham Police Department were also turning up in a form of miserable, tortured soul, along with the evidence and proofs of their crimes being carelessly laid beside their lifeless corpse.

The killer taunts those who are in charge of justice within their city each time the damned were unfortunate enough to be hunted down; pigs of failure written in the criminal’s blood right beside the drawing of a police’s logo.

However, despite how gruesome and disturbing the murders were, most people couldn’t deny that it was doing the city a favor. Justice System has failed more times than one could count to the extent of victims yearning to exact revenge themselves against their perpetrator, which causes most to react rather positively to the wrongful, unlikely hero who had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The haunted finally getting the chance to slay the traumatic demons with the help of another psychopath on the loose.

Another justified monstrosity shouldn’t be the counter against one inhumane monstrosity that caused so much pain, trauma, and misery. But kindness could not vanquish one’s tainted blood. Forgiveness could not suddenly wash away the sins engraved deeply into one’s soul.

Imperfect, the victims muttered. An imperfect yet perfect way to save our burning souls wrongfully condemned by the criminals.

Red Hood has heard their murmurs.

Silent whispers of gratitude that fell on deaf ears, their previously dim soul brightening in relief and sanctuary with smiles on their faces as the Universe had finally took mercy on them and sent a Fallen Angel to slay the Demons away. He’s watched their spirit uplift, no longer chained down by the trauma and fear of the monsters that once ruined their lives, able to walk the streets carefree of tormentors. He’s watched their stiff posture visibly loosen, lively peacefulness settling itself at last within their haunted eyes. He’s watched them glow with happiness not feeling the presence of their perpetrator every couple of seconds, finally capable of living without needing to constantly look over their shoulders in paranoia and fear.

Ghostface is what the serial killer’s called, nickname born out of the mask that resembled a ghost always being left behind in crime scenes, each slightly different.

Jason has seen you. He didn’t mean to, really.

The temptation to get at least one look at you was great every-time he patrolled, wishing to just catch glimpse of an immoral hero who could make sacrifices no actual heroes could — who’s doing exactly what he wished before for Batman to do.

The Universe seems to have granted his wishes when his eyes catches the void of ghostface’s eyes, your mask tainted in splatters of blood from the dead criminal below you. Jason feels his world come to a stop as you slowly rise from crouching position and reveal your unnaturally tall height, broad shoulders visible under the black hooded leather. You hold silence and calmness despite being caught, tilting your head slightly to the side.

His heartbeat quickens yet he doesn’t feel fear. Jason idiotically steps closer as if he was in a trance, burning your existence within his eyes to engrave in his memory. Your bloody knife barely grazes his neck to stop him before using it to tilt his chin up, your figure looming and towering over him while seemingly staring into his eyes through his helmet.

A sense of peacefulness overcomes Jason being in your presence despite the absolute brutality and mercilessness that surrounded your entire being. You were deadly, silent, certainly creative with your work that it deems almost artistic, as if the criminals’ bodies were your own canvas to paint on — and Jason finds solace in you. A man he always needed, someone who’d be willing to cross the line and get rid of the actual evil for the sake of victims that’d be forever haunted if it continues to exist.

“I’ve heard things about you, Red Hood.”

Low, raspy, monotone voice speaks, sending shivers down his spine. It sounds cool and handsome regardless of the obvious use of voice changer, somehow littered with tiniest hint of flirtatiousness.

It takes him quite a while to answer, barely managing to let out a “yeah?” as he feels you drag the knife slightly closer to his pulse. His heartbeat quickens, but slows down when the cold metal was finally pulled away.

“Pleasant things,” You hummed, before your voice lowered a few octaves, “Can’t say the same about Batman.” Anger seems to seep through your tone that felt a little more than just sympathy for victims of villains Batman refused to put six feet under. Jason wondered if you’re also one of the victims his father failed.

“You… You know him that much?” Jason’s voice shakes from the nerve, your presence somehow greatly affecting him.

“I think everyone knows him enough,” You chuckled, but it sounded so empty that Jason can’t help but feel the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was quite chilling to meet someone who shows only a certain amount of emotion which could even be felt expressionless due to the monotonous pitch. The ghostface mask certainly did its job of making you seem more less human, the unmoving expression of ghost being horrified to death adding to the eeriness of your toneless mechanic voice.

Jason’s breath hitched when you took one step closer.

“But I know more about you. Your little past and the sufferings you’ve endured,” It’s spoken as if his life was one of your necessary investigation in your twisted justice. “It’s unfair, don’t you think? I would’ve gutted the Joker like a fish if it were to happen to my son.” There’s a condescending way in which you spoke, not directed at Jason but to Bruce.

“How—” Jason swallowed. “How did you—”

“I can make your dreams come true,” You interrupted him with a tempting offer, shutting him up effectively. Wide grin plastered your face despite not being seen behind your mask. “I can kill the Clown for you, Red Hood. If it means it’ll silence your troubled spirit. If it’ll bring you peace. I can hurt him on your behalf just like he deserves.”

It was like a whisper from the devil, slithering its way into Jason’s heart and mind to possess his soul, mirroring the one which whispered on Adam and Eve’s ears.

He’s been wanting — needing — to hear those words come out of Bruce. His suffering and death seemingly being brushed off as a cruel accident shattered him more than he’d ever admit, Bruce’s unhealthy coping mechanism and morality getting in the way of showing his love for Jason that left the younger man feel lesser than he was. Bruce was a complex person that’s sometimes difficult to understand, his impressive ways to stick to his morals being exactly his character, but Jason wanted for once, to actually feel how important he was to his father.

Was that too much to ask for, or was he just unworthy of the entirety of it?

“Why would you do that for me?” Confusion and subtle suspicion filled his tone as Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out your intention despite the rush of hope that shot throughout his chest. He forced himself to feel nothing when you leaned in closer.

“Because you were wronged, of course.” You simply stated. “You are a victim. Not more, not less. You deserve a little more than just empty justice. And I’m a man who got tired of vigilantes that are afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.” Then, you tilt your head slightly to the side in a way that’s somehow alluring. “But I can also say I’m intrigued by you.”

Jason’s heartbeat quickens again when your big hand seems to wrap perfectly around his throat, fingers resting just above his pulse points. It makes such filthy thoughts flood themselves into his mind, your long and quite thick fingers falling victims to his tainted imagination, and he had to give everything in himself not to bare his throat more for you. You seem pleased of his lack of disobedience and bite, having expected him to shove your hand away or flinch back before you could touch him. You’ve seen Red Hood once and how his uncontrollable rage resulted in violence, heavy burdens and extreme trauma turning him into a ticking time bomb that could explode any minute with the wrong move. He was absolutely lethal, the bullets serving as the evidence of his wrath and resentment towards the underground scumbags. It’s amusing that you have the man of violence himself now somehow completely under your control, surprisingly quiet and shy and obedient. You wondered if this is how he was before he was ruined by the cruelty of the world.

“You want it, don’t you? For me to kill the Joker.”

Jason feels as if you know everything he wants. Is this what it feels like to be important?

It takes a little while for him to answer, but he eventually came up with a “You’ll do that?” which sounded vulnerable and weak for the first time in his second life. Your heart clenched at the doubt and seemingly child-like vulnerability in which he uttered the words, as if he was afraid to trust something after being betrayed countless of times, reminding you of the sole person you’ve even began doing all of this for. They were quite similar yet so different — your older brother and Jason.

You hadn’t meant to cross his boundaries and unknowingly step into the empty hole that made home in his heart. Unconsciously slithering in like a snake by touching the subject his heart was longing for, not realizing his childhood’s still remaining within his spirit.

All he wanted was love and to feel safe again. You didn’t know the Red Hood was so adorably pitiful. A smirk plastered your face.

“I will,” You reassured and leaned your face inches away from his, the hand on his throat lifting his helmet slightly.

Jason doesn’t retaliate, blinded by a meat of hope dangled in front of him. He doesn’t move as the lower half of his face was exposed, and you lifted your own mask the same using your other hand. Jason willingly, obediently closes his eyes before your lips attached to his — a kiss of death, tasting like blood and cruelty. Warm and soft despite your rough, cold-blooded, corrupted soul. A kiss from the devil.

When Jason opened his eyes, you had already disappeared into the darkness with blood stains on the ground you stood before, a single note left behind; Hell will reopen for the Clown.

After neatly tucking the note inside his jacket and making sure no evidence has been accidentally left on the crime scene, Red Hood smiles for the first time in a long while and reaches for the comms without a heavy heart.

“Batman, I found another body.”

Whatever happens, he’ll have no knowledge of the following misfortune that’ll befall on the Joker. It’s the righteous serial killer’s doing, after all.

What was used to be a maniacal laughter turned into screams of agony and pain. Strong stench of death and blood makes euphoria rush within your mind, the feeling of slicing through flesh with your knife bringing pleasure and ecstasy that made your pants tight. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the way your own actions cause serious harm and scarring to criminals who once deemed themselves powerful, being reduced into nothing but a powerless prey that could easily be gotten rid of.

You feel increasingly powerful the more you strip them of their dignity and arrogance as they shed blood on the holy ground. Your existence alone striking them with crippling fear and anxiety feeds into your ego, yet you never stray away from the sole purpose or reason for your murders — making them taste their own medicine.

From what you found on countless deep dive and research, Joker preyed on Red Hood when he was still a young child full of life and joy, having been under the name Robin at the time. Second Robin to be exact, considering he was a lot different from the first one. It actually surprisingly pained you when you’d seen how much of an adorable, dorky, nice kid he was before misfortune cut his life short. You would’ve never thought you would find a kid adorable in your entire life, the little menaces often being nothing more than a headache to be around with that caused a certain dislike to grow towards them within you, but Jason was everything a cute kid was. Just excited to be there, to be fighting alongside Batman, to be relevant.

Such a precious boy ruined for the sake of shits and giggles for the Clown. For the sake of getting under Batman’s skin. And the Bat couldn’t even make fucking amends to his flaws as a father and mentor.

Well, he didn’t need to anymore.

You’ll give Red Hood— Jason Todd —what he wants. Yearned for. Perhaps, even what the other civilians who have fallen victims to this vile criminal want. You would stop at nothing until every criminal is gurgling and choking on their own blood.

Joker’s scream shoots a jolt of electricity within your body as your knife pierce through his skinny thigh and to the ground, pinning his leg down. You had been doing an effective job of reducing the maniac into nothing but a screaming, cowering average victim by torture. Bruises, burns, gashes, and stab wounds littered his body that was done carefully enough to not be life-threatening. Fucker was laughing maniacally at first, of course. It irritated you so much that you might’ve went a little overboard.

Watching Joker heave and struggle to breathe from the pain, you tilted your head and roughly grabbed his throat. It catches him off guard and he grips your wrist, barely even having the strength to fight you off. You’re amused by the entirety of Joker’s nature, how he’s still just an average man that can easily be overpowered — nothing that makes him special enough to not be killed, becoming proof of Batman’s selfish willingness to let the victims suffer than bring them actual peace.

You’ve never uttered a word since you captured him and it unnerved Joker from the beginning, but then, words finally come out of your mouth in a form of monotonous, mechanical, emotionless, eerie voice as you lean over him; “Laugh it out, Joker. Why so serious?”

It sounded like a death sentence.

He’s right in a way, because another of your knife pierced the corner of his mouth soon as you uttered the words. Your other hand tightened on his arteries to choke him while you drag the knife to slit the side of his mouth into a grin, following the lines of his red lipstick. It was certainly not a clean cut, but an artist has their own creative ways to make their art. Tears mixed in with blood that gushes out of his face, complete horrors written across Joker’s eyes which boosts your satisfaction. You go on and do the same thing to the other side of his mouth, before finishing your art piece by carving ‘J’ on his painted cheek.

You resist the urge to moan at the sight of blood coating your fine piece, always finding it to be an amazing finishing touch.

From then on, Joker was brought to literal Hell.

Jason flinches when a playful knock sounded from his safe house’s window, cautiously approaching to see ghostface waving at him through the glass. His eyes widened and immediately opens the window to let you in, not wanting anyone to see you — your sudden appearance distracting him from the fact he’s never given anyone the location of his safe house.

He stops in track at the blood splatters across your mask, and just then had he noticed you seemed to be hiding something behind your back with one hand. It definitely strikes his curiosity, but he somehow didn’t feel like you were holding something that could harm him.

“You got something for me, ghostface?” Jason feels you grin under your mask.

“Got you a present,” Your raspy, rough voice enthusiastically quipped.

Jason’s breath hitches when you show what you were holding — the Joker’s decapitated head in a square glass container tainted by its blood. You obviously had planned to bring it barehand, but you considered the possibility of its blood dripping down on his safe house and becoming a false evidence to point him to the murder, which prompted you to put it inside the container. An unbelievably sweet gesture for a fucking psychopath like you.

Jason could feel his heart beat rapidly as he takes in the animal’s state, carved up grin and the letter J and the horrors seen in its lifeless eyes proving the absolute misery and suffering it went through before being put down. The monster was finally, finally slain and gone forever from his life. Nightmares detangles from his spirit and the past unwraps away from his soul, utter peace and relief spreading throughout his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes at the feeling of being free at last from the life long torment, breath shaking as his knees wobbled.

The child in himself, the innocent Robin that was killed unfairly, finally rests in peace.

Then he sees you, his hero, waving your seemingly new knife playfully in the air with your outfit splattered in blood without a care that you actually saved him, and Jason feels a sudden surge of arousal and will to submit. To give you everything, anything.

“Do you love it, Red Hood?”

Without answering you, Jason grabs the glass container with shaky hands and sets it aside on the counter before stepping back closer to you again, blood rushing to his veins from arousal. He removes his helmet with a thud on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, lustful and yearning emerald eyes looking up at you.

“Let me thank you, please.”

It makes you groan as your pants significantly tightens more.

You slide your knife back into the holster before cupping his beautiful face in your hands, and thank fucking Heavens there wasn’t any blood on it that would taint his face, because he’s a sight to behold. He’s truly a gem, something precious you had never seen before. “So beautiful,” You whispered, making Jason flush. “Baring yourself to me for such a simple present, doll?”

“Not a simple present,” Jason mumbled as he snuggles on the palm of your hands. “You saved me.”

You hum appreciatively, getting the itch to bare yourself to him as well. “You wanna thank me by what?”

Jason looks back at you, face flushed with a little hint of uncertainty and embarrassment, doubts. “I— uhm,” He stammers, but encouraged by your thumb’s gentle stroke on his cheek. “By… by becoming yours.”

Your cock throbs. Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable, you just wanna fuck his guts out. You’re usually tempted to gut people, not fuck their guts— which is funny to say the least— but you weren’t going to say no when the Red Hood’s so willing to offer himself up.

“You wanna take my mask off, doll?” He seems surprised by your question as if he hadn’t thought of it, making you chuckle. “If you wanna be mine, I gotta be yours too, don’t I?” It was dangerous to reveal your identity to him, but you couldn’t care less, especially when you could just fuck his brains out to shut him up. That’s the plan, first time that didn’t include butchering or cutting a body up.

Jason fucking Todd and his effects on you.

The emerald eyed male hesitantly grasped your mask when you led his hands to it, slowly lifting it over your head. He’s met with a fucking luscious feature to ever be adorned on a man and dark, lustfully murderous blood red eyes that makes a whimper slip past his lips. You merely widened your eyes at the sound he made before immediately grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, swallowing Jason’s surprised gasp.

He reciprocates the insatiable hunger you displayed, tongue dancing along with yours and moaning into the kiss when your fingers lightly tugged on his hair. You pull him up in amidst of making out and squeeze his ass, encouraging him to wrap his legs around your hips. You detach your lips from his to trail kisses down his jaw and neck as you walked towards his bedroom, questionably knowing where it is, and Jason tilts his head back to give you more access with closed eyes. Letting him stimulate both of your restrained cocks by grinding down, you sat down on the bed and sucked on his throat as Jason moaned.

“Please, please…” He whimpers, uncontrollably moving his hips in a perfect rhythm yet he seemed to want something else.

You pulled away and traced his lips with your thumb, watching as he naturally took it in and sucked, giving you a desperate look. Swiftly turning off the voice changer attached to your neck in a form of choker, you chuckled when his hands fiddled with the belt on your hooded coat. “So needy, aren’t you?” Your real voice sends shivers down his spine.

An alluring, low, slightly rough pitch and somehow more emotionless than when you were using the voice changer. It makes his cock twitch and empty hole clench down on nothing, the need to be stuffed full of your cum swarming in his belly. You’re fucking bewitching, a man made up from every guy and girl’s fantasy, wet dream, and your attractiveness mirroring the Devil’s that would tempt and lure others to sin.

How the fuck were you real?

“Speak up, pretty bird.” You smirked, “What do you want?”

“Your cock,” Jason mutters, cheeks tinted in pink. “Wanna suck your cock and make you feel good.”

“Fuck…” You shifted in place, “You’ll do that f’me? Get my cock nice and wet to take you apart? To fuck your guts out?”

Jason shakily inhales and nods, climbing off your lap and kneeling on the floor. You lean back on your hands as he unstraps your belt and slide your zipper down, slightly raising your hips to help him get rid of the excess clothes. Your thick and lengthy cock smacks against your clothed stomach, making Jason’s mouth water. Thick veins throbbed on your big shaft, the tip angry and red from arousal leaking precum. It wasn’t just big, it was long, and Jason squeezes his thighs together to keep himself from just riding your cock all day.

His hand wraps around the base, starting to stroke it with a content rhythm. God, you were so fucking big. It’d definitely split him open if you shove it in so suddenly and fill him up nice. It’d make him scream his head off from the unbearable length and girth, almost too much, and Jason wants you to force him to take it. Pin him down and fuck him despite his pleas to stop.

Jason swipes his thumb over the slit, smearing precum, pumping it for a good amount before licking a stripe up the underside of your cock. You shudder, removing your gloves to slip your bare fingers through Jason’s hair, encouraging him to take you in. He obeys, relaxing his throat first before sliding your cock inside his warm mouth, and you groaned at the warmth that surrounded you. It almost didn’t fit from how big you were, but Jason braced himself and took it in further until he gagged as the tip touched the back of his throat. Wrapping his hand around your shaft that he couldn’t take in, stroking gently as if to apologize.

A moan slips past your lips when he starts bobbing his head, tongue brushing against the underside of your dick. “Fuck… Doin’ so good,” You roll your head back. “Such a pretty face to fuck, ain’t ya?”

Jason whines, tears gathered in his eyes as he sucks and fastens his rhythm. Curses, grunts leave your lips that left him feeling all hot and bothered, his other hand moving to skillfully pull his pants down and free his aching cock.

You see him touching himself and a smirk adorns your sinful face, gently scratching his scalp with your nails which earned you a whimper from him. “Go on, fuck yourself. We both know it wouldn’t fit that easily without proper prep,” Expression twisting into a cocky one, your grip on his hair tightened. “I’ll do as I please with your mouth until you’re done.”

Without waiting for his approval, you roughly shoved your cock deep down his throat and moaned loudly, throwing your head back. Jason gagged with a loud whimper as his eyes rolled back into his skull and cum shot out from his throbbing cock, hips jutting forward and twitching due to the sudden orgasm. You chuckle lowly, amusement and lust glinting in your bright red eyes, before you pull back and ram on his throat again.

Jason’s cries and moans were muffled as you ruthlessly use his throat to gain pleasure. His mind has already turned into mush from your assaults, white cum and precum staining the floor yet he doesn’t put up a fight. Taking it all like the good, obedient boy that he is. He’s reached behind him to insert two fingers in his awaiting hole, walls clamping down on the digits from the arousal of his throat being utterly wrecked.

Yesyesyes, please. He chanted in his mind. Use me, mark me, cum in my throat, make me yours.

The moment you fulfilled your promise and delivered him the head of his enemy, he was already yours. It’s all he ever wanted. Unquenchable thirst that always gnawed on his throat and hunger that left his stomach restless, his soul practically teared in half from being battered and beaten. He matters now — mattered enough to you, that you went ahead and killed the source of his misery. The love exploding in his chest was almost unbearable; he was already high on cloud nine from the moment he’s seen you present the head so cheerfully.

You see how he looks up at you, emerald eyes almost displaying hearts with how much he was melting. He’s taken your murderous act as an affection, and you couldn’t be more happy, because it’s what you intended.

“Shit, baby… Gonna cum soon,” You panted, thrusting vigorously. Jason hums and flexes his throat to provide you more pleasure, making you tighten the grip on his hair. “You want me to cum down your throat?”

You earned a desperate whine from him, closing his eyes to prove he was waiting for it. His fingers kept their own assault on his prostate, scissoring and stretching the squishy walls, muffled moans escaping him.

God, he looked so fucking gorgeous. He’d look even more gorgeous with your dick ramming inside him.

Jason feels your big cock throb in his mouth and his fingers move more aggressively to pleasure himself, wanting to reach his high at the same time as you. Stimulating your tip with the back of his throat a few times, you moaned loudly with a curse when Jason slightly flicks his tongue over your sensitive underside, forcing an orgasm out of your body. White, thick, warm seeds spurt out from your slit to his awaiting throat as Jason whimpered in delight and shot another layer of cum on the wet stained floor, hips thrusting in the air.

He greedily swallows every drop that spilled down his mouth despite the euphoria making him feel dizzy as his body slightly trembles.

You chuckled, breathing heavily, pleased expression spread across your face. “Good boy. That was such a good throat-fuck.”

The raspy, sultry tone of your voice makes electricity and chills run through Jason’s spine as his walls clench down on his fingers, yearning to be filled. Jason certainly doesn’t have a womb — it’s anatomically impossible — yet he couldn’t help but feel like it’s there, waiting and aching to be fucked and bred. He needs your cum to be pushed so far inside him. Need to be marked entirely as yours inside and out. Need you to rearrange his guts, fuck his brains out, breed him full, then fuck your cum further back into him.

Jason pulled his fingers out, whimpering at the loss of contact, before looking back up at you with begging eyes. “Can you-?” His voice cracks as he swallows, “Take me apart, please. Make me yours, fuck, I wanna be yours.”

You noticed tears gathering in his eyes, as if being rejected of his want to be your possession would be an ultimate heartbreak in his life; a life-threatening, gnawing thorn in his heart that’ll tear him apart piece by piece and shredding his soul. Jason thinks he can’t live without becoming yours, his savior’s. He can’t live without the source of his safety, the man that fulfilled his silly little dream and sacrificed his own sanity for it.

It absolutely amuses you that he’s become so attached just because you’ve driven him away from harm’s way. A little dumb, but he was your little dumb doll.

You gently caress his face and Jason leans into your touch, making your lips curl upwards into a smile. “Of course, doll.”

It leads to Jason being pressed face first on the mattress as you rail him from behind, sinful and alluring noises leaving his lips stained in drool. Your name escapes him like a chanted prayer, hands gripping the sheets, electricity sparking within his mind that left him dumb and unable to think coherently.

“Fuh-fuck! mgh, ah- yes, oh my god—!” He cries out when you pulled almost entirely back and rammed your cock roughly into him, almost seeing stars in his vision.

The roughness in which you handled him, the perfect angle of your hips allowing you to force pleasure out of his body every-time you thrust, the way you push his back down on the mattress to make him arch more into your merciless tactic, leaves Jason absolutely delirious. You didn’t just fuck him good; you fucked him with absolute vigor and violence, occasionally biting strongly on his shoulder to draw blood, showcasing your natural instincts as a serial killer. He feels your big fucking dick throb and gets impossibly bigger inside him each time his blood seeps out the broken skin, and Jason’s head spins at how much it drove arousal in his core.

“Good fuckin’ sex toy,” You grunted, roughly slamming your hips against his and causing a sharp moan to erupt from Jason.

“B-big—! s’too big- fuck!” Jason whines, tears spilling endlessly down his cheeks.

You smirk as you feel your ego skyrocket at being able to reduce a rather muscular man into nothing but a whining, blabbering bitch. “Yeah? I do split you open, don’t I? But you love it since you’re such a fuckin’ slut.”

“oh- aghn! y-yours— hnngh! Your s-slut! No one else’s-!” He chokes out, desperately reaching for you behind him.

“So fuckin’ adorable,” You chuckled and grabbed his hand, pinning it back to the mattress as you hover over him. You seem to fit against each other perfectly well, your large and tall body able to encage him that left Jason’s stomach fluttering. He’s taken a lot liking of the fact you’re bigger than him, considering he’s never been the smaller one when he was with others. It gives him a sense of shelter.

“p-please— pleaseplease- oh! cum— fuck… cum in me again!” Jason blabbered.

You can’t help but comply to his request, fastening your pace and drilling more into him. Incoherent sentences spill from his drooling mouth when he feels your cock pulse within his walls that signified your soon release. There’s a purpose in which you thrust your hips now — more sharp and angled yet a little sloppy, aimed to brush against his prostate and make him feel utterly good.

“Shit… Cummin’, doll.” You grunted right in his ear before shoving him on the mattress by the back of his nape and slamming all the way down on his already gaping hole.

Jason nearly screams, voice cracking, as his orgasm hits like a strong tide of wave at the same time you spilled thick layer of white semen into his fucked out guts. You ride out your orgasm by thrusting slowly a few times as Jason’s body violently shakes from the aftershock. He subconsciously whines in annoyance when some of your previous cum seems to overflow and replaced by your recent one, bucking his hips as if to use your big cock as a plug to keep them all in. His belly felt full from how much you’ve been filling him with your seed yet it still didn’t feel enough. Jason wanted more; he knew you weren’t going full on him yet.

You swiftly turned him around on his back without pulling out and kissed him roughly. Jason mewls into the kiss when the position makes you push more deeper into him, his hands immediately clasping at the back of his thick thighs to pull them up and make it easier for you to fuck.

“My cute little thing,” You murmured against his lips and bit the skin to draw blood, Jason’s hole squeezing down on you from both the pain and pet name. He greedily whimpers your name, holding onto you for life and yearning for more of you despite already receiving what he wants.

It was so fucking adorable and arousing to see him desperate for not just you, but your entire being as well, willing to welcome such darkness with open arms and tearful smile. You weren’t really a desirable person; so many people have thrown themselves at you for your conventionally attractive features and masculine body type that swoons hundreds yet cower away in fear and speak of you in disgrace when shown the demons living inside of you. No one could seem to look past your murderous, cold-blooded psychopathy — some have attempted to, which only resulted in your darkness growing bigger when they break their own promises. You weren’t meant to be loved. Your destiny was written in the stars and the Gods have cursed you with eternity of living in loneliness and madness without cure. You were meant to be feared, a lonely and violent soul that couldn’t be tamed, your sole purpose of existence being a destroyer; nothing more or less.

Jason, however, seems indifferent to your fate.

Instead of running away in disgust and fear at your acts of violence around the city, he was seeking for you. He’s seen what you’ve done, what you could do without feeling remorse, what monsters lie beneath your existence — and still, he graciously opens his heart (and legs) for you. There’s love and desire within his eyes where distaste should be, touch so soft and warm it baptizes your tainted skin. You’re soaked in blood yet Jason takes his time with you to clean them up. Born with thorns yet he willingly prickles his fingers on them.

You’re a danger everywhere you go, but to him, you were home.

It makes your heart clench; he’s broken the Gods curse and it costs him his freedom, because now he’s caught up in your webs. You wouldn’t let him go, like a snake that’s wrapped itself around its prey in a death grip.

Jason wanted to be yours. What better ways to fulfill his wish if not possessing his body, soul, and spirit?

“Sweet dumb thing,” You purred, hips thrusting slow and sensual, unable to forgive parts of his walls that weren’t touched by your cum. “Mine to fuck, ruin, or make love to. That’s right, yeah?”

Jason nods, moaning softly. Your hands now replaced where his were on the back of his thighs, bending him almost in half as you roll your hips to gently brush against every weak spot he has. The sudden shift in rhythm and atmosphere confuses Jason for a bit, his fogged mind unable to comprehend the situation at hand, but the intimacy strikes a further pleasure that was nearly mind-breaking. He’s been reduced to a moaning mess, blood, sweat, tears and cum coating his body.

“p-please,” Jason keened, like it felt agonizing to be loved ever so gently. “I— ah… I want- I want you,” He stuttered out between moans.

“You’re having me, aren’t you?” Replying, you nipped on his neck and sucked, leaving behind a purple bruise.

He nearly cries, shaking his head. A waterfall of tears streamed down his face, and you find yourself captivated by them. It was almost ethereal despite being one of human’s responses to most things imaginable; your victims always shed one or two accompanied by begs of mercy, but all you’ve ever thought of them was amusing. It’s been used as an escaping tactic from you before, which was never successful due to your lack of morality and sympathy towards your target. They were pathetic, but Jason was divine. Tears suited him— not tears of fear, but tears of pleasure and utopia.

Your focus snaps back on reality when Jason suddenly pulled you down by the nape and bit down hard on your shoulder. A pleasured groan leaves your lips at the pain, hips bucking, making him whimper.

“Jason—”

“Please,” He cuts you off and finally murmurs; “Wanna f-feel how… mhm-! how you actually love…”

It strikes something in your core. Despite your perfect skills of hiding your true nature and never being caught, Jason saw it right through you, how you were holding yourself back for his sake. Quite ironic to witness a cold-blooded killer care for someone enough to go soft, even though it looked like you were going rough on him, and it warmed Jason’s heart. But he was a greedy, fucked up human being who wanted all of you. It wouldn’t be enough until he knows he’s taken you fully.

An amused laughter erupts from your chest. Eyes darkening in lust, Jason feels one of your hands wrap around his throat warningly as the other pushed his torso flat down on the mattress. “You… You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, Todd.”

You pull all the way back before ramming in, making Jason let out a loud, choked up moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. Your thrusts relentless and powerful, slamming against Jason’s body with an intensity that made his head spin, your hand holding his throat as a leverage. Your name spills from his lips like a prayer, something that seems to ignite a possessive feeling within you. Jason can’t help but mewl when your grip tightened on his arteries, throwing his head back to let you gain fully control.

The way he’s so obedient and putty in your hands despite knowing you can kill him if you truly meant to makes you love him even more, fucking him and taking away his ability to breathe wasn’t enough. Greediness turning overboard with the darkness and psychopathy that lies within your existence; you almost wanted to cut him open and crawl inside his guts so you could truly claim Jason, inside and out. You wanted to be more closer to him, see how far you can go without Jason pushing you away or getting disturbed.

Jason’s eyes widened when a cold metallic silver touched his cheek, seeing you holding your signature knife through blurred vision from his tears. However, he doesn’t flinch away like you expected him to, instead his walls squeezes down on your cock and his own twitched against his stomach. The unexpected reaction pulls a loud groan out of you, your hips bucking.

“Shit, Jay… You lettin’ me kill you or somethin’? Good fucking cunt just tightened on me,” You rasped, thrusting your cock against his prostate.

Jason gasps, his hands grabbing the mattress and holding it in a tight grip. It’s so shameful how turned on he was at the danger that lurked around you, his usually sharp instincts relinquished to be replaced by naiveté and stupidity for love. He must’ve gone insane; getting killed was one of his triggers because of his past yet his soul yielded nothing in retaliation to the possibility of your blade slicing through him. All of him seems to have come to love and trust you too much just because you’ve decapitated the beast his entire existence feared, which a part of him found utterly ridiculous and idiotic, but not enough to stop.

He wouldn’t stop himself from loving you — not when you’ve given him the love he always yearned for.

You lean in and ghost your lips over his as you dragged the knife on his torso, lightly scraping him. Jason’s breath quickens, his pupils blown wide in lust and need, anticipation seemingly running through his body as his moans turned into desperate whines.

“p-please…!” He chokes out a whisper, rolling his head to the side and whimpering when you snapped your hips warningly on his. “feels— fuck! feels g-good—! c-carve me… hngh! carve me u-up-! shit… make me fuckin’ bleed…! please,” Jason nearly cries for you.

Groaning out a curse, you reflexively bite down hard on the crook of his neck and push more of your cock inside him, causing a loud keen to erupt from Jason as he squirms and cums on his own stomach at the addictive sense of pleasure and pain shooting through his body.

You licked the blood that seeped out from his skin, satisfied at the clear bite mark you’ve left visible before sensually grinding your hips. Jason whimpered quietly, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“That’s it, doll. Let go, feel good. m’not gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. It’ll all feel good,” Whispering sweet words, you slowly press the tip of the knife just above the v line of his hip and drag it down. Jason hissed at the prickle of pain and tensed up, but the pleasure of your cock stimulating his sensitive walls was too great that forced him to relax. “It’s alright, doll. Jus’ carving you up with my name, so you’ll be mine forever. Isn’t that what you want? Be fuckin’ mine?”

Jason moaned softly, nodding his head. Series of pleasepleaseplease blabber out of him accompanied by heavenly noises he’s been making since you started taking him apart, his brain too fucked out that forcibly twisted pain into pleasure as all he could think about was becoming yours. You, his savior, his God, claiming him by marking him up with your name. Jason feels like he could fucking squirt from just that thought alone.

His blood seeping out from the letters of your name arouses you to no end, your cock throbbing inside him while you continue to move, the darkness within you being thoroughly fed of its bloodthirsty hunger. This is the first time it doesn’t gnaw at your skin to drive your knife deeper, pull the guts out, and splatter redness everywhere; instead, it wanted to be gentle, as if Jason was a significant existence too precious to hurt even for the Devil. A proof that Jason was always meant to be yours, the only one who the monster inside you would rather love than kill.

Carving the last letter, you laughed breathlessly in satisfaction and stabbed the knife on the headboard before slamming your lips against his, devouring his pleasurable noises. Jason whines, arms wrapping around your neck to pull you impossibly closer, arching his back when you switched into a much faster and rougher pace.

“Cummin’, fuck!” You grunted, to which Jason wrapped his legs around your hips to make sure it stays in.

“I-in— in me… fuck- oh my god— please… please, cum in me. Make me full again, p-please…” He begs, clenching his walls around you to push you over the edge, his own orgasm nearing.

Seeing him covered in his own tears, sweat, blood and drool fills you with nothing but pure ecstasy knowing it’s all because of you. The most appealing, ravishing man being a slutty mess right beneath you, begging to be bred and full of your cum, does feed too much into your ego. No one can do anything to take you away from him now, because you’re wrapped around his fingers as much as he is around yours.

“Anythin’ for ya, doll.” You chuckled, thrusting a couple more times before shoving your twitching cock deep into his guts with a moan and releasing your load. Jason mewls, his hole throbbing and squeezing down on you as he throws his head back, tainting his abdomen once more.

Riding out both of your highs, you let out a raspy groan and kissed his lips again, Jason weakly reciprocating due to the overstimulation. His body trembled hard, mind almost shutting down from the exhaustion and too much euphoria. “So good, doll. Took me like a good fuckin’ boy. Fuckin’ amazing.” You praised.

Jason could still see darkness in your eyes, the murderous devil, but there’s a hint of happiness he didn’t recognize before. Love and adoration filled your expression despite the violence engraved in your soul, and Jason finds himself smiling against your lips lightheadedly.

He whispers your name like a forbidden secret, then a curse that completely binds you to him; “I love you.”

You could get used to this, you suppose. There’s nothing more poetic than violence meeting love — two opposites can’t coexist with each other, but perhaps it’ll be forced to. After all, the Devil in you decided he was an untouchable divinity no one shall ever harm, not even yourself, despite its never-ending monstrosity towards humanity.

“I love you too, my Jason.”

When Joker’s decapitated head on a makeshift spear turned up that night, stacked upright in front of Arkham Asylum with blood splattered across the ground in words ‘True Justice for the Tortured Souls’ and a bloody ghostface mask laid aside for everyone else to see, Jason knew he was now in safe hands.

People say, never make a deal with the devil.

They never said he couldn’t love one, did they?

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarizing, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

[katsu2ji]

gentle reassurances — k. bakugou

a/n: katsuki can stay mad at a lot of people for a long time. you are most certainly not one of them.

“come here.”

there was no frustration or annoyance in his voice, breaking the tense silence between the two of you as you stood on opposite sides of the kitchen. the words he spoke were soft and calmer than they were just moments ago, and you knew he was putting in careful effort to keep it that way.

you stood there watching him for a few seconds, quiet. he couldn't read the warring emotions on your face as the two of you held eye contact, and for a moment, katsuki was so afraid that you weren't going to come to him—that you were going to turn around and leave him standing there alone with his arms open. that you would leave the argument unfinished, unresolved.

his worries disappeared, however, when you crossed the gap and stepped into his waiting arms. you breathed in his familiar scent as you wrapped your arms around him. he did the same as he buried his face in your hair and closed his eyes. he took a long, deep breath.

you were the first to speak. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have yelled at you."

your voice was muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but his heart gave a squeeze nonetheless. you could feel his head shake against yours, one of his hands moving up and down your back.

"don't apologize," he mumbled, his voice equally as hushed. "i'm the one who came in annoyed. you did nothing wrong. it's just—" he took another deep, steadying breath. "it's been a long day. for both of us."

you hummed against him, not moving from your spot in his chest. "still, it wasn't right for me to yell back at you. i should've given you space when you came in."

katsuki frowned at that, pulling back just enough to look at you as his hands slid down to your waist. "space? why the hell do you think i'd need space from you?" he asked, brows furrowed.

you avoided eye contact, choosing instead to focus on a loose string from the hem of his shirt. katsuki stared at you for a moment before taking your hands in his.

"hey, look at me," he said. again, his voice carried no hint of anger or annoyance at your actions, just gentle reassurance. "you are the one person i will never—ever—need space from, you hear me?"

you knew this tone of voice. it was one he only ever used for you. katsuki wasn't a liar, you knew that—especially not when speaking like this.

he waited silently, watching you nod your head. he pulled you close again, kissing the top of your head.

"i love you, okay? today was long, and...and i shouldn't have yelled, but i never need space from you, alright?" he kissed your head again. "so don't think like that."

you closed your eyes, feeling his chest rumble as he spoke.

"i love you, too, kats." you leaned your head up. "can we go to bed now?"

you smiled at the chuckle he let out, feeling his body reverberate again. he gave you a squeeze, burying his head in the crook of your neck.

"for fucks sake, yes please. i'm exhausted." he placed a soft kiss on your neck, then smiled at you.

"no more arguing, okay? not worth arguing over stupid shit like this, anyway. not with you."

"oh, so you'd argue with someone else over stupid shit?" you teased.

he bit back a smile. "shut up. you know what i mean. no more fighting."

you smiled, kissing him. when you pulled back, he swore he could see the stars.

"no more fighting," you concluded, feeling contentment wash over the both of you.

katsu2ji © 2025. please don't copy, modify, or do anything of the sort with my work! i work very hard and you simply do not have my permission.

[peachiejeongin]

Mind-Numbing Melody | Bang Chan

Synopsis: Chan has been unmotivated lately when it comes to producing; however, he comes across a melodic idea that he just cannot resist. He just needs your help to fulfill it. Pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader Genre: Smut, Slight Fluff Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+ Recommended), dom!Bang Chan, sub!reader, pet names (pretty girl, darling, good girl, etc.), biting, marking, fingering, slight edging, teasing, begging, unprotective penetrative sex (please use protection), Chan uses reader's moans in a song Notice: Hello, my darlings! I know it has been weeks since the release of SKZHOP, but Railway has been driving me absolutely bonkers, so enjoy this fiction I wrote when I discovered you could hear Chan moaning in the background of the song :,D

word count: 4.5K Smut under the cut!

The studio was steeped in a familiar glow, its dim lighting wrapping around stacks of forgotten notes, tangled cords, and empty coffee cups that lined the console like weary sentinels. Chan hunched over the keyboard, fingers tapping an irregular, impatient rhythm. It had been days, weeks even, of this same cycle—blank stares at a blank screen, fleeting sparks of inspiration that fizzled out as quickly as they arrived.

The room smelled faintly of espresso and something sharper, a sort of musk as if Chan's frustration was materializing into a smell. The scent was Chan's constant companion these days, a reminder that no matter how hard he pushed, the music would remain just out of reach.

You watched him from the warm leather couch in the corner, your legs curled beneath you as your phone rested forgotten on your lap. He was quiet, but not in the comforting way he usually was. This silence was heavy, nearly oppressive.

"You're going to burn a hole into that screen," you finally said, your voice teasing but soft, careful not to break him entirely out of whatever fragile trance he was in.

Chan glanced over his shoulder at you, a faint, tired smile curving his lips upwards in a manner that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Maybe I can burn some inspiration into it," he murmured, turning back to the keyboard. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that let you know how sore it was from hours of tensing.

He absentmindedly clicked through the tabs open on his browser, hoping something would reignite his motivation. A playlist was open on his monitor, softly blaring tracks from artists he admired; most of them were songs that sparked awe and envy in an equal measure. But it was the headline of an article on trends in modern music that caught his eyes, words he had previously skimmed earlier in the day: "Personal Touch: The Rise of Intimacy in Music Production."

He had not thought much of it at the time, dismissing it as another gimmick. Now, in the late-night haze of desperation and coffee-stained reality, the concept felt like a thread to cling to. The idea of creating something raw, something undeniably intimate, grew in his mind. When he looked at you, lounging on that couch as if you were a calm in the storm, an idea began to crystalize.

You caught his gaze, brows furrowing slightly in concern as you noticed the shift in his expression—an intense focus, almost predatory, like he had just discovered something precious.

"What?" you asked, nerves and curiosity blending in your tone.

Chan stood slowly, the chair rolling back with a low creak. When he crossed the room, every step deliberate, your heart began to beat just a bit faster. He dropped to one knee in front of you, the studio's ambient light casting shadows against the defined angles of his jawline. His fingers found your thighs, resting there lightly at first, then gripping just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"I need your help," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through you.

"With what, my love?" You tilted your head, trying to read the intent behind his lustful, dark eyes.

"There's this idea I have," he began, thumb absently stroking the fabric of your sweatpants. "I read this article—something about artists using intimate sounds from their partners in songs. Breaths, moans, everything. I can't stop thinking about how you would sound in one of my songs." His gaze dropped to where his fingers rested against your thighs, almost reverent in a way.

"Your voice, the way you sound when it's just us...I think it could be the spark I'm missing."

Your breath caught in your throat. The idea was audacious, bordering on the verge of scandalous, yet it held an allure you could not deny. You imagined it— your moans hidden between beats and chords only you could notice.

"You're serious?" you questioned, voice barely reaching above a whisper. Chan nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a certain vulnerability that made your heart clench.

"I've been so stuck, but the thought of creating something with you that's so raw and real...it just feels right."

You swallowed, the weight of his request pressing down on you in the best possible way. The trust, the intimacy—it was more than you had ever imagined sharing with Chan, moreso the audience that would be tuning into the song.

"Okay," you agreed softly, the word containing every ounce of trust and anticipation you felt.

Chan's lips curved into a slow, sincere smile, and he leaned foreward to press a kiss against your forehead. It was warm, lingering, a promise as much as it was a kiss.

"You have no idea how much this means to me," he mumbled as he pulled away.

Before you could reply, he captured your lips with his, a kiss that was at first gentle, exploratory; it then deepened into something that made the studio air feel heavy, electric. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you melted into him, a symphony in the making.

This kiss grew hungrier, if that was possible, your hands tangling roughly into Chan's hair as he remained steady on your thighs. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and the soft gasp it elicited made him groan against your mouth.

"Just like that, pretty girl," he whispered, his voice hoarse as his lips brushed against yours.

Chan pulled away from you briefly, striding to his computer and clicking open an audio-recording tab; the faint glow of the monitor casted a faint shadow on the walls. You repositioned yourself as he opened the taper, falling back onto the cushions; he made his way back over to you, climbing over top of you on the couch, his hands tracing an agonizingly slow path up your sides.

Every movement and every touch was unhurried, deliberate as though he was tuning you, finding the exact pitch that made you hum beneath his touch. His fingers danced over your skin, like he was learning the contours of an instrument. The press of his lips ignited sparks at every point of contact.

"Channie," you whispered as you intertwined one of his warm hands with yours; he stroked your cheek gently, smiling ever so lovingly at you.

"Relax for me," he purred before nipping his teeth at your neck ever so slightly. The motion caused you to shiver, your breath hitching in your throat as his lips travel from your neck slowly to your chest. There, he sucked small markings into your skin until purple and red adorned your chest. Welts became present due to his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before Chan moved to fiddle with the hem of your top.

"Are you alright with taking this further?" Chan questioned, assuring that he had your full consent before going farther.

"Yes," you breathed out, the words nearly getting stuck in your throat; your gaze flickers to the computer screen, watching as the speakers picked up each noise, the audio receptor's lines expanding with each recipient.

With your approval, Chan stripped you of your top, agonizingly slow albeit, his fingers moving their way to the clasp of your bra. He managed to undo the latch in one, swift motion, and before giving you time to think, his lips wrapped around your nipple.

You moaned as the warmth from his mouth and the wetness of his tongue sucked, kissed, and bit at your nipple, his tongue gliding over the sensitive region. His hands caressed your hips slowly before the right one moved up to attend to the neglected breast; his fingers rolled the bud, pinching, flicking and eliciting beautiful sounds from you.

"Don't hold back" Chan breathed out. "I want to hear everything."

At this point, your body was burning, both from Chan's actions and from the awareness that this was all going to be on tape; you felt a coating of arousal pool up at your core, causing you to rub your clothed thighs together in attempts to gain some sort of friction. Chan noticed the action almost instantly, grinding his hips slightly into yours; you sighed almost out of relief as you felt his own arousal poking through the black fabric of his loose shorts.

Chan lifts off of you, his hands reaching for the bottom of his hoodie; however, you stopped him, your hands mirroring his actions. You wanted to strip him, wanted to be the one to revel in revealing his perfection. Chan sighed out of contenment as you lifted the sweatshirt over his head, messing up his hair in the process and discarding the article somewhere on the studio floor.

Ridding the hoodie revealed a toned torso, with glimmering, slightly-tanned abs sparkling in the glow of the studio. You instinctually moved your hands to lay upon his chest, just as you had done so many times before, sliding your palms down his body smoothly and causing him to shiver. He positioned his body back above you, leaning over your smaller frame.

"Let me take care of you, Love," he lightly growled out as he moved his hands down to hook under the waistband of your pants, flicking his gaze to meet yours for approval. You nodded repeatedly, causing Chan to giggle as he slid your pants and underwear down, throwing the clothing alongside his hoodie.

He relished at your arousal, his eyes looking blown out before any sexual act had been committed.

"Look at you, Darling," he whispered, sliding a fingers through your wetness and causing you to whine. "Always so pretty for me."

Before you could comprehend his words, your mind increasingly numbing at his actions, Chan inserted his pointer fingers, pumping the digit in and out of you slowly. The contact elicited a string of hearty, genuine moans from you; admittedly, you were louder than you usually were during sex. You were not sure if it was because of the arousal of being recorded or if you just felt particularly frustrated that day.

Whatever it was, the sounds escaping you were particularly tumultuous, and Chan thought the octave was perfect for what he wanted to accomplish.

Chan inserted his middle finger minutes after his first digit, his pace quickening along with the speed of your whines. He maneuvered his hands, reaching to where his thumb could brush against your clit and allowing you to feel as if you were on cloud nine. You repeatedly clenched around him, feeling your orgasm creeping up on you slowly but surely; however, Chan removed his fingers before you could reach the finish line, which earned a loud, aggravated whine from you.

"Channie!" you groaned, your pussy clenching around nothing as you bucked your hips up instinctively, attempting to receive any type of contact, even the slightest motion, that would bring you to your end.

"Why?"

"Adds an element of fun," Chan responded, his lips quirked into a smug smirk, "both to the music and to our little moments."

"I can't wait anymore, Chan," you whimpered out in response, making your boyfriend tsk at you appraisingly before he slid off his own bottoms.

He quickly lined his cock up with your entrance, rubbing through your folds teasingly; he complimented the prior action poking at the hole.

"Are you ready, Darling?" he questioned.

"Yes!" you yelped out, positioning your legs to wrap around Chan's torso.

"Beg for it, then," he commanded, causing your eyes to widen and your cheeks to flush from embarassment.

"This wasn't apart of the plan," you quietly mewled as Chan halted his teasing motions.

"Mm, maybe not, but I know what gets a reaction out of you," Chan admitted leaning down to whisper in your ear, his hot breath fanning your ears. "I gotta make sure this melody encapsulates as much of your perfection as possible. So, baby girl, if you want the same thing, I suggest you get to begging."

You let out an annoyed huff, your lips pursing into a sheepish pout as you reluctantly did as demanded of you.

"Please, Channie," you pleaded, your arms gripping his shoulders. "I need you so bad please. Please, please, please, baby." Chan chuckled lightly at your beseeching as he placed his hands on either side of your face.

"Good girl," he praised gently.

With that, he gently pushed himself inside of you. You both gasped at the feeling; Chan's length filled you completely, causing you to tingle with excitement as the familiar stretch swiftly morphed from pain into pleasure.

You gave Chan the go-ahead to move, and he held your hips tightly as he thrusted in and out of you; his lips parted, making their way to kiss and nip at your skin, the tips of his canines lightly poking you.

"You always feel so amazing, my love," he moaned out; you simply sighed in pleasure, clenching yourself around him as you melted into his stature. Rushes of pleasure shot throughout your body as Chan tighlty gripped onto your hips, his nails causing indents in your flesh.

The knot tightening in your stomach returns throughout Chan's thrusts, and you are unable to comprehend the sudden change in his demeanor from gentle to hazy. All you know is that it feels good and that you are losing yourself within his darkened gaze.

"Chan, oh my," you moan out, your voice high pitched and hoarse.

"You like that, Darling?" Chan questions as your noises pick up in pace. "Keep moaning for me. You're doing so well."

"'M close," you whimper out, holding onto Chan for dear life. Chan mandhandles your body upwards, still holding onto you in the new positions and burying his head in the crook of your neck.

"Cum for me then, Love," he commands; as soon as he gives the approval , your orgasm hits. Your brain becomes like mush, and your eyes flutter shut as the pleasure rocks through you.

You feel Chan halt in his movements and he slowly pulls out of you, allowing himself to finish on your stomach before laying beside you.

"Still with me?" he questions, pulling you into his arms.

"Mhm," you mumble, just barely able to hear his words. You feel tired all of a sudden, tangling your hands in Chan's hair, albeit much lighter this time.

"You did so good, Baby," Chan praised, holding you tightly against him. "Wait until you hear how beautiful you sound."

A week had passed since that night in the studio. You had not been allowed to hear the song yet, as Chan insisted it was, "not ready." His process was meticulous, almost obsessive, and though your curiosity burned, you let him do his thing.

Now, you were back in the studio, perched on the same couch where it had all happened. Chan stood by the mixing console, his headphones draped around his neck, a spark of nervous energy buzzing in his movements.

“It’s done,” he said, running a tired hand through his hair.

You shifted in your seat, heart thudding with anticipation.

“You’re making it sound like I should be scared,” you teased, though the slight tremble in your words told him part of you was nervous.

He shot you a lopsided grin, approaching you and sitting beside you on the couch. Strangely, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“You don’t have to listen if you’re not ready," he explained, his tone laced with a sense of reluctance. "It’s...intimate.” The way his voice dipped sensually on the last word made your pulse quicken and you instantly shook your head.

“No, I want to hear it,” you declined his offer, your words uttered softly. "Play it, please."

He nodded, a faint smile present as he slid his headphones over your ears and pressed play on the monitor. The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the equipment. As the first notes filled your ears, everything else slowly faded away.

The song started softly; it was a deep, pulsing rhythm that felt like a heartbeat, layered with delicate chords that swept over you like a whisper. Then, beneath the music, you heard it.

You.

It was a faint gasp, so quiet it almost blended into the background vocals, followed by the softest of moans mixed into the melody. The sounds sent a rush of heat to your cheeks as your mind flashed back to that night, to Chan’s hands, his lips, and the way he had coaxed those very sounds from you.

Your breath caught as the track built, the sensual undertones unmistakable. Every layer of the song felt personal, your breaths and your voice intertwined with the raw intensity of Chan's production. It was not overtly explicit, but the sensuality was undeniable, a secret language only the two of you could speak woven into the music.

When the track ended, you pulled the headphones off and stared at him, your mouth slightly agape.

“Chan...” You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw the headphones at him. “That’s me.”

His lips twitched into a smirk, though his eyes searched yours for any sign of disapproval.

“It’s us,” he corrected. “I wanted it to feel sincere, like it replicated us to a tee.”

Your cheeks burned, contrasting the thrill that coursed through your veins. Chan scooted closer, leaning in front of you so his face was mere inches away from yours.

“You’re my muse,” he told you simply. “Every sound, every breath—it’s you. You inspire me.”

You shook your head, laughing softly.

“If people hear this-”

“They won’t know it’s you, if they even notice it's there,” he reassured, his voice gentle. “It’s subtle. Just for us.”

Your lips parted, still processing, but before you could say anything else, he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"You don't hate it, do you?"

“Hate it?” you echoed, shaking your head on denial. “I could never hate anything you create. The song is absolutely beautiful. It’s just...”

“Just?”

“...Really hot,” you admitted, biting your lip.

A deep laugh rumbled from his chest, and he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because it’s the most personal thing I’ve ever made, and I want it to be for you as much as it is for me or for the fans.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Well,” you began, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “if you ever need more inspiration..” Your voice trailed off as your fiddled with the chain of his necklace, your forehead still pressed gently against his. Chan grinned, his fingers tightening on your waist.

“Don’t tempt me, y/n.”

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ʙʏ: @/anitaleina

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